I wish I could be like you. So thin you refract everything. Bent but never bending. You're so sure, you who haven't lived even a fraction. Do you have regrets, dear? Do you wish you had someone you could call baby? Did you cry after having sex with her? I would accept nothing less. How far you had to run from me. Is it working? I, who cannot run. I resent you for this freedom. Resentment, envy--how does one ever really get over these. I believe I moved you more than anyone else has. You, marmoreal, this means a lot to you. But this is not sufficient for me. He's not that into you. I believe, to the core of my being, that if you want to be with someone, you will do whatever in your power to do. Present trumps future, I know you believe this too.
He cuddles me out of pity, he says. He holds my gaze as he tells me he wishes he could be like you, without conscience. I look away and tell him he's better off being like himself. I hate it, our relationship feels dirty now. Everything I must look back on with some suspicion. I wish sex were abundant, but it is not my responsibility to make it so. If sex were abundant, would he still look at me that way? I don't think so.
People seem to think I'm good at sex. You know this is a lie. I'm lazy in bed, pleasure coming too easily for me. I don't have to work at it.
Is the Hawthorne effect the same as my Little Green Alien theory?
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