You are the man you want to be, inducing my ragged breath, lying in my soaked sheets. Then other times you are the man you actually are, when you shake and lose your cool. When the closeness registers in your eyes and I know that you finally feel what you've longed for. You feel what is secretly inside your heart, inexpressible for so long. I don't lie to you, I grasp every ecstatic moment you give to me and feel it in total honesty. It's an honesty that alarms you and wakes your neighbours. You don't want me for my beauty, though I could be called beautiful. I'm not in your bed because I am the kindest, smartest or funniest woman you could have, though I put the fear of God in a few women you know. You make love to me because I know who you are. When I cum, you glow; all the greatest things about you are set alight in the mirror. You could say that I'm just the mirror.They say that I am a slut. The tone of their words suggests that it is not a talent or something to be proud of. My. The air still held the odor of cigarettes and cocaine smoked a few hours earlier, though the smoke had dissipated. And something else, something even more chemical than cocaine. Lifting her head, she groaned and let it fall back on the bed, no pillow catching it. "It's in my head," she said.Turning fretfully to her left to look at the stranger who brought her to his apartment, actually the upstairs of a house on the border of posh Nob Hill and snorted lines with her and fucked her and smoked the cocaine stuffed at the head of the cigarettes, reluctance became pure horror. She hopped out of bed, naked. Her right side felt sticky where the blood coated it. Her one night stand bled out from his neck, the last of his life fluid oozing from the gaping wound.She realized she held a knife in her hand, a huge Bowie knife, grasped when she jumped off the bed. "Jesus," she muttered, using the Spanish pronunciation. She heard a door open and saw a weird vision of a walking cloud surrounded by.
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