Oh, it was him, it was all because of him, I knew. Him and his book and his body, and the way he spread his legs and looked at me in the black glass of the window. It was him and his tragic wife and his sad yet triumphant story. I was writing to him. He who wasn’t the least bit interested in me—I was writing to explain myself to him. If I couldn’t have him—perhaps I didn’t even want him—I at least wanted him to know me. Who I was and how I felt.
