His mouth smelled like another woman. The Tentacle of Ice, I thought, as I finished. My suspicions were finally confirmed: During the weeks we hadn’t seen each other, she, a member of the unthinking masses, had returned to his life to provide him with uncomplicated pleasure. He had sought solace in a woman—the Tentacle of Ice—who was, relative to me, in less pain and whose desires had nothing to do with art or literature or the total problem of life.
