Be Honest

The gold heart on her ear is tilted sideways. The gold hair around her face has fallen loose. She is at the age when what she is thinking is transparent on her face, when there is no reason, in her mind, to disguise her yearning.

Last night, doing that squirrely quickstep with Jean, my back was being wrenched and my shirt was quickly drenched and my lungs were raw and scraped and bleeding, and still he wanted more. Still he was standing there with his hands on his hips, telling me to give more, hop higher, land harder, thrust wider. "Can't you leave me alone?" I asked him, only half joking. "I mean, Come on. Look at this. I'm crazy even to try it."

And he said, "I am telling you what I see, and I am telling you what I want, and I am only ever honest."

"It's brutal," I said (I gasped), my body slammed against the bar for it could no longer stand up on its own. "Your honesty."

"Why would I waste my time," he said, "being anything but? Dishonesty is inefficient."