' I
write one-act plays. Wrote. But it seemed to me that the knife had been
in act one, when Krishna dragged me into the bathroom.
"Or maybe act one was when he brought it home, after I showed him my
wings.
"And act two had been my night in the park. And act three was then,
standing over him with the knife, cold and sore and tired, looking at
the blood crusted on his face."
Her face and her voice got very, very small, her expression distant. "I
almost used it on myself. I almost opened my wrists onto his face. He
liked it when I... rode... his face. Like the hot juices. Seemed
mean-spirited to spill all that hot juice and deny him that pleasure. I
thought about using it on him, too, but only for a second.
"Only for a second.
"And then he rolled over and his hands clenched into fists in his sleep
and his expression changed, like he was dreaming about something that
made him angry. So I left.
"Do you want to know about when I first showed him these?" she said, and
flapped her wings lazily.
She took the ice pack from her face and he could see that the swelling
had gone down, the discoloration faded to a dim shadow tinged with
yellows and umbers.
He did, but he didn't. The breeze of her great wings was strangely
intimate, that smell more intimate than his touches or the moment in
which he'd glimpsed her fine, weighty breasts with their texture of
stretch marks and underwire grooves.
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