On impulse, I rang George.

I sensed that rejecting his supper last night would incline him toward my agenda, and so it went. We shall drink tomorrow night and my dastardly plan is to drag him into my own wanton and regressive behaviour, though he knows nothing, as yet. But of course, it was only on finishing the call that I fully understood this. Of late, I find myself in a rare state of unknowing toward myself, as if doing things to find out the reason I have done them. Was I ever so adolescent, even as an adolescent?

On sensing the affair within the Tuesday Group, I put out word seeking new members and this morning, partook of my first assessment. I was rather disappointed to find myself with another
furious lesbian but, as the interview closed, found myself even more disappointed in my failure to remember the Andre Masson print in my hallway. Titled Lesbos, it shows faceless women lolling all over each other and the emotional tone of my candidate reminded me of this blurring feminine. So as she talked from the throat of this abuse, that abuse, as if I held the sword of Damocles itself, I began to consider lesbianism as an act of theft. I began to wonder if I had ever worked with a lesbian who was the queen of her own feelings, rather than the pilferer or forger of another, far more beautiful woman, mother, sister, aunty. However, rather than pursue this
scandalous thought any further, I simply bid adieu.

Client R.

What can it do, charging you every penny for your absence, what can it do but bring us closer?

Oh, George.

Let us go play, play nicely.