“Have you ever fantasized about the two us together, as a couple?”
“What sort of question is that, please?”
“Well, you are only asking that to gain self-confidence and… because the thought turns you on, but there is no feeling behind it.
“Maybe.” (Silence) “Don’t know, really. But still, have you?”
“The stupid bitch I am, I always tell you the truth.”
“There is no other way to go.”
The candle flickers.
“Yes, the thought has entered my mind.”
“You sense that I’m attracted to you, and I do admire you. And I guess I see you the way you are, in all your glorious weirdness… because let’s face the fact, you are effin weird. And still, I think I could love you with all I have.”
(And it’s not fair to ask such things because I’m on the verge of it, damn you – I silently add while I cover myself with a towel.)
“But you see, the question is something else. The question is something you may not want to hear: could you love me? Because I’m not a martyr, and only open my heart wide if it won’t be broken to pieces.”
This is, of course, always one of those last things a person says before the world crumbles down.