Roland Topor
It’s good to have pretty women dislike you.
He said that to me like it was funny. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m too stupid to get it, even now, two years later. I guess he must be happy; my mouth twists with hatred whenever he’s brought up.
Look, I’m writing about it again.
I love pissing in the showers at the Y.
E says that’s disgusting, but I fail to see how, or why, or why I should stop.
I never will.
We have the sauna all to ourselves today, but I’m still huddled in a corner.
We usually say nothing, but today I have a question:
Should I fuck him?
I am talking to a wall of steam.
Wait, what, who?
The guy from earlier, the Aggressive Swimmer!
She laughs. But I’m serious.
I’d like to know. I’d like to know about anyone else.
Could I settle?
The other night we watched Dick.
It wasn’t very funny, but I kept laughing anyway, kind of like being loud during sex, encouraging yourself toward an orgasm.
E pulls the cake out from her fridge.
It was on sale for five dollars!
That’s the real miracle.
I think the Aggressive Swimmer and I have a real shot.
He’s already seen me at my worst: swim cap, no make up.
I like that he takes care of himself. I think he’s a go-getter.
I think that’s what I want.
I wish I could partake in one single act of revenge, of deserved cruelty. I think about it all the time, about the thing I could do and don’t do.
At least my restraint is confusing and unexpected.
Take that, motherfucker.
Tomorrow’s the day.
I hope he flings me into the pool. I hope he buys me dinner. I hope he tells me the truth.
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