At that moment I know I am half woman, half child. That a portion of me conceals a child who loves to be amazed, to be taught, to be directed. When I listen, I am a child, and Henry becomes paternal. The haunting image of an erudite, literary father reasserts itself, and the woman becomes small again. I remember other phrases, like “I would not hurt you—not you,” his unusual delicacy with me, his protectiveness. I feel myself betrayed. Overwhelmed with the wonder of Henry’s work, I have become a child. I can imagine another man saying to me, “I cannot make love to you. You are not a woman. You are a child.”
I awake from dreams of utter sensuality. And then in anger I want to dominate, to work like a man, support Henry, get his book published. I want more than ever to fuck and to be fucked, to assert the sensual woman. Henry says one day, “Listen, I believe you could have ten lovers and handle them all. You’re insatiable.” And another day, “Your sensuality doesn’t convince me.”
He has seen the child!
Hateful, infuriating. I run away from Clichy and think I carry my secret away with me. I have the hope that Henry has not grasped it too well. I fear the uncanny analysis of his eyes. I slip out of his bed and run away while he sleeps. I rush home and fall asleep, deeply, for many hours. I must choke the child. Tomorrow I can meet Henry, face him, be woman.
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