She smiled with her closed insect lips. The
smile was ingenuous and warm but wry. He could tell from these
infinitesimal muscular contractions and relaxation in her stony insect
face that she did not want him to think of their friendship as a
relationship and the words passed from brain to brain (hers to his, his
to hers, and hers to his like a mutating ping pong ball) something to
the effect that a being was born selfish and two selfish beings
together were a compounded selfish knot and so something new was in
order. Something new was in fact in order. There, ardent in her eyes,
was the relationship of her parents: it was based on hoarding property
and power. It also was based on begetting emotional servants for their
old age and that in particular was abhorrent to her. But he, the male
mosquito that was programmed for copulation and no other task, loved
her. He had to since he needed her for the satisfaction of his hungers
and a deliverance from the past. He continued with his male-on-the-make dance.
She bit into him. His blood was on her lips.
And when he woke up he wasn't himself. His ideas were
discombobulated and he could tell that his consciousness or sanity was
like a loose button on a thin thread dangling from his shirt.
Pages:
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285