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And something about his tone told you he had no choice. Even if it was to make one afternoon pass. One afternoon. soul Spent on this bed you are picking up your socks from. The man soul holds the door open with one hand, a towel loose around his waist. Family photographs line the mantel. You, on the other hand, have none on yours; you have no stories to tell. You are tired soul of talking and explaining. You were tempted to give your camera to a street urchin outside Bombay airport. Now it lies in the back of a closet. Still loaded with the pictures you took on your mother’s seventieth birthday. She’s seventy-five now. Being fucked has felt like being opened up. This much you now know. But you are thinking—what about love? Perhaps sex only curdles to love when someone takes a long look at what’s inside. But you are no apparent mess. You drive a nice car and pay a four-figure rent. You never buy Dockers on sale. You haven’t missed a day of work. But what about the evenings you make scrambled eggs with seven random spices?
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