can he lay there a little longer, letting her believe this is real? can he touch her just enough to to let her think he is doing more than his duty? can he wonder how on earth he got naked with this woman who is good, too good; soft, too soft; real, too real? can he hold her and ignore the bilssful smile with the eyes closed and curved lips? she is searing this illusion into her memory, and he is holding the door open. already he wants to forget the smell, forget the quiet, forget the way her hair tickles his chest. he hates these intimacies because they are not his. they are the moments of should, the moments he should treasure. but she is not for him, and he hates her for not seeing that. she is better than he is, better at loving, better at trusting. she is so much better that she does not notice that not everyone is like her. especially the man whose hip she drapes her leg over. she believes that leg loves that hip, believes she is laying there with another woman who only happens to be growing a penis, a penis whose posture is more a function of biology than the swoon of love. he is not conquering any dragons for her, and in fact would conquer one just to leave this horrible softness. how does she not know she is just a woman? she is no dream, no truth, no savior. she is not mother or breast or love. she is a woman. before, in the infinite moment of first meeting, of first projection, she was all these things. and he told her. and he made her feel. made her! because women must drink romance like a man at the oasis. and how he made it rain! he wanted her to drink, to swim, to indulge in the delusion that he was real.