It's slowly getting warmer, there are nights when I can sleep on top of the sheets in my underwear and pretend like Henry is lying next to me. I dream about him then spend my days trying to avoid him. It's easily done in a city like New York, but the thought of his slender silhouette following me across the avenues, dressed in black, forces me to look over my shoulder wherever I go.
Wanting him is a schizophrenic experience because of what I am to him. Another body to undress and touch with those proficient hands, another girl on the other end of a telephone line after dark, falling asleep to the hypnotic whispering of his voice.
If I could make it any less easy for him I would, I just don't know what to say that hasn't already been said by another.