Unsuitable Structures

Which one am I, again?

I couldn’t remember without a glance at the date on my watch: the twenty-first.

I typically didn’t tell them what I was doing because even to me it seemed both overdetermined and creepy if I thought about it for too long. But for whatever reason I decided to tell this one and, even more startling, she still followed me back to my room after I did. It was probably the bedroom psychoanalyst in her–the same one that spoke (confidently if incorrectly) of Julia Kristeva’s theory of abjection at the hotel lounge, the same one that would probably tell her friends about me and my twisted mission, the same one that probably had her own hang-ups about sex (they say that people who fuck around tend to fuck people who have fucked around and that’s all kinds of gross when you think about it) and was trying to understand something about herself vis-a-vis her encounter with me; that’s probably why she came back with me.

She didn’t say anything else. And neither did I. We had sex and she left.

Nine more days in June.