(no subject)
Ingrid was gone. He wasn't surprised. Their act was one of pleasure and nothing else. No need to fear lingering feelings, extended agony--as he was going through for her. Later, perhaps, he'll reflect on this night, only to discover he had made one stupid mistake in a string of many. He'd say, then, that the man of stupid whims was just the kind of man Satine had made him, a man who lashed out on man and object alike, who turned acts of love into acts of pleasure, to do the one thing he could not: fall out of love with Satine.
His intentions rebelled against him. He had tried to think of Ann, had tried to dig up old feelings and realized they were just that. Old feelings. He had moved on.
Perhaps Satine's new situation was simply retribution for the act he had committed. If so, it was another reason why he hated love.
His intentions rebelled against him. He had tried to think of Ann, had tried to dig up old feelings and realized they were just that. Old feelings. He had moved on.
Perhaps Satine's new situation was simply retribution for the act he had committed. If so, it was another reason why he hated love.