Party Headquarters

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THE strangest part is when I see she’s starting to cry. With us, tears often lead to unexpected consequences.

Even without the tears I still want to hit her, painfully hard. But when she cries it just gets out of control. The victim’s magnetic attraction inflames the perpetrator. I’m driven to tears myself — out of frustration that I can’t force myself to finish it off, to do absolutely everything I want to her. In exactly the order I would like.

If anyone were to see us at this moment, bawling, locked in this torture chamber at opposite ends of the bed — in the middle the bloody sheets are stained with wet spots, but not from blood, lymph, vaginal secretions, sperm, or who knows what else — could it be that some other beings are copulating here with us? — at that moment the shocked outside observer would think we are crying for each other, for ourselves.

Wrong. An incorrect judgment, a faulty interpretation of ambiguous facts. I’m not sorry. What can I say? Regret is most certainly far beyond the boundaries within which I would torment her. Tears are just one more weapon in this battle, nothing more. I must be very careful now; tears, like all water, temper freshly forged metal. Her blue zirconium glare blazes out twice as pliant, resilient, like eyes on a rifle sight, eyes like bullet tips — and I’m the bull’s-eye.

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