“No man is going to care about that. I mean look at me.” She was serious when she said this, though later she would protest that she had been joking. (Which might have been true in the way that a man “jokingly” asks his lover if she wants to have a threesome with her twin sister.)
He did look at her. In fact, that’s all he did. Because she demanded his gaze, subtly threatening to place herself at the mercy of another man’s lecherous and lustful stare if he ever looked away. As awful as that sounds, maybe, to you, her demands were mutually beneficial: as much as she claimed that she didn’t need his gaze, she did for various unimportant psychoanalytic reasons; he needed his gaze too, because for superficial men such as himself, looking at women who live only to be looked at was the only reason they lived.
But one cannot sustain oneself on looks alone. So one night he threw himself from the window (there were probably other reasons too). But before he did that, he took his eyes out and set them on the nightstand. She’d add them to her collection, no doubt, in the morning.
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