Sensuous

17 June — Thursday

If you knew me, Arnold.

God. What would I be to you if you knew me? Would you hate me? I somehow think not. Would you still want me? And for what reasons? Would you perhaps only lust for me, so hot at the thought of Jennifer that you lose sight entirely of Arlene?

I wonder.

I would not want that last. It tempts me sometimes, Arnold. To become Jennifer for you and have to accept her even as you forget Arlene. But one of the things I treasure in you, Arnold, is that you know only Arlene and love the Arlene you know.

I seem to be writing this to you. Odd, that I am doing this. Odd and unfamiliar. All of this heretofore has been written to myself, or to my typewriter, or at least to some unknown and perhaps unknowable eye. I never wrote to Bill. I never thought of any of the persons Jennifer has met as being recipients of the thoughts unfolded here. And yet I find myself now, probably for the first time, addressing all of this to you.

Not that it matters. You’ll never see any of this, Arnold, but I am thinking (and typing) these thoughts to you, messages never to be sent, let alone received.

Arnold and Arlene, Jeff and Jennifer.

If all of me knew all of you, if all of you knew all of me, then precisely where would we wind up?

Always the beautiful answer that asks the more beautiful question—