I don’t regret killing Marco. It was, after all, almost his decision. Had Marco broken with his monogamous pact, had he forsaken his bourgeois conformity to the donna, to his faith, to the superego of respectability, had he merely made the easy choice to fall gently into vague dissolution, he’d still be walking and talking, alive to sneak into obscure trattorias to eat prosciutto and finger-fuck my familiar genitalia beneath the table. I’d rub my face into his badger-pelt chest and order another magnum of Champagne. We’d have oysters and anal, not necessarily in that order, and all would be
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