Portrait 2

My own boy,

I insist. I am in awe of you, despite my name, despite my allusions, despite my lustful past.

Days of silence succeed our short meaningless telephone conversations. How odd that I should always need a pretext to call you (such as, I saw your name in the paper, someone mentioned you at the office, which bar was it that you said you worked at because I think I read about it in a novel). How odd that I should so often be unable to think of a suitable pretext and that I should therefore be forced to endure the ensuing silence.

And yet, we have both always known the facts. We have always known how pretentious these pretexts are. We have always known the explosive meaning of the meaningless talk on the telephone. Even though I may never have said how I need to fuck you every day, every night, every hour.

I should speak out when I see you next. fearlessly. Obsessively. And perhaps I will. Or I might email you a link to this space.

In actual fact, I love you. My name is Iris Clert.

Iris