“My true talent,” he said slowly. “Was hiding.” “Your genius. Your new life,” she said. “You were meant to be a playwright, my love. Thank fucking god we figured that out.” “We figured that out,” he said. As if stepping out of a fog: a little boy, a grown man. Characters who were him but also not, Lotto transformed by the omniscient view. A shock of energy as he looked on them in the morning. There was life in these figures. He was suddenly hungry to return to that world, to live in it for a while longer.
