I am not afraid that you may try to make love to me. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. Her small round breasts were vulnerable under her mostly nonfunctional Kmart bikini bra. I asked him—to take me away. How could he have betrayed her so cruelly? How could he lie and claim her as dead? Sebastian studied her carefully as she refused to cry and became like a pillar of stone. We dressed it in a little music. And I get myself dirty.
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