myself.â What he feels isnât simply the languor of desire. It was a craving for rest, or for something even stronger. To which Diddy wished to surrender himself alone. He felt that tiredness on entering the tunnel, but had refused the feeling. Diddy grasps the girl. âMaybe I donât want to make love. Maybe I just want to sleep.â
âCome,â she said, and tugged at his hand.
âMaybe I want to die.â
âCome.â
The girl extends her hand, feeling along the wall until she finds a door handle. âWhatâs this?â
âThe washroom.â
âItâs empty, isnât it?â
âYes,â Diddy says.
âShall we go in here?â
Diddy follows the girl. Inside; the lavatory door locked. It was done. It was about to be done. In the lavatory, smelling of disinfectant and urine. A secret place, a hiding place: lowly yet secure. Diddy glances into the mirror above the metal sink. Then, expectantly, at the girl. âTake off your glasses,â he whispers. She removes them, holds them out for him to put somewhere safe; he lays them in the sink. Takes her in his arms, pressing her against his chest very tightly. Kisses her long and at the end brutally on the mouth.
Diddyâs face (now) a few inches from the girlâs. Her eyes are a grainy imperfect blue, like milk glass. Diddy stares into them, searching for some modulation of expression. But although they move and blink, they have the monotony of ornaments. Could one infer a look, it would be a sad useless look. Innocent of utility, unable to achieve dominion by staring.
Bleached eyes.
Tiffany glass eyes.
Eyes like teeth.
Eyes like cooked white of egg.
Eyes like a specimen of dried white of egg, prepared for the microscope.
Eyes like tulip bulbs.
Eyes like an electric drill.
Prehensile eyes.
Guilty eyes.
Metal eyes.
Meteor eyes.
Lima-bean eyes.
Paper eyes.
Carrion eyes.
Annealed eyes.
Damp eyes.
Wet eyes: the intricate vial of liquid.
Crisp eyes, soggy eyes.
Tattered eyes, elegant eyes.
Stained eyes, clean eyes.
Creased eyes, smooth eyes.
Rotten eyes, fresh eyes.
Sharp-focus eyes, soft-focus eyes.
Concave eyes, convex eyes.
Bespoke eyes, ready-to-wear eyes.
Stiff eyes, flexible eyes.
Univalve eyes, bivalve eyes.
Single eyes, multiple eyes.
Eyes with and without their outer shell.
Empty eye sockets.
The white hymen of the eyeball.
âCan you see at all?â he asks softly. One never knows. An eye within an eye, perhaps. The fabled sight of the blind. She shakes her head. But as sight isnât only in seeing, eyes arenât only to see with; eyes, like mouths and hands, are organs of suffering. âDo you ever cry?â he whispers.
The girl has unzipped the back of her dress. Diddy helps her pull it over her head.
âWhy do my eyes interest you so much?â She stands (now) in her bra and half slip.
Her aunt had called her Hester. âItâs not your eyes. Itâs you, Hester,â says Diddy. Not exactly the truth. âDo you ever cry?â
The girl pulls down her slip, extends it to Diddy to take from her. (Now) sheâs wearing only the low-heeled suède shoes, her stockings held up by a tiny garter belt around her hips, and the bra. No underpants. Diddy astonished and excited by her sudden virtual nakedness. Is it so easy for her to be naked with a stranger because she canât see herself being seen? Because exposure of her body to the eyes of a stranger seems no different than exposure of her face to all invisible strangers?
Something cool and experienced about Hesterâs undressing. Still, Diddy is almost afraid to acknowledge his erection. Undoubtedly, sheâs not a virgin. But does the girl really know what sheâs doing? In some way, sheâs as opaque to him as heâs invisible to her. â Do you cry?â Diddy persists, stalling.
âAre you asking me if Iâve worn out my eyes weeping?â