(no subject)
This is supposed to be a love story. I try to hug him. I force myself. I grip him too hard. He's uncomfortable, breaks free. He's "he" now, not Arthur. He no longer has a name in my mind. But that "he" is great, looming large, like a wall. One afternoon he's waiting for me, naked in bed, when I come in from a walk. I see him, but too late. I'm already too close. I freeze, terrified. It's a wild sort of fear. Animalisitic. I'm frozen, my eyes darting. He moves. I flinch away, though I'm far from the bed, a yard at least. "My God," he says, "What is it?" He looks down at himself, frightened and bewildered to have provoked such an effect.