Sighing, he closed his PC, attempting, and failing, at dulling the aching pain in his heart, and also staring sadly at his own reflection staring back at him through his monitor.“Hello,” he said to himself, clinging on to the last semblance of his sanity as he could feel his own eyes stare back at him with an emotion he discerned as disgust. “What am I even doing? Talking to myself, you’re becoming more and more crazier each and every day,” he muttered, looking down at his table, slamming his fist down as drops of water rained down above him from his opened can of soda.There were fizzy droplets on his arm, and he lacked the proper motivation to wipe them away. In fact, everything…seemed to mean nothing to him.If he had to wager in a guess, and if his memory served him right, it had been probably several weeks since he last bathed himself. If someone were to come to his apartment building at that very moment, they would be greeted with the stench that would put even a sumo wrestler to. Occupied me. I could usually tell when George was inside me byhis breathing, not by how my pelvis felt.George was far more understanding of women and the things thatinterest women than any man should be, certainly less 'manly' inthat respect too. He had wonderful taste in women's clothes, myoutfits I mean, and a lively interest in the kinds of gossip thatare so interesting to women and so boring to men. But I loved himfor that. I'd tell him that, too, if asked, though I knew thathearing the truth about this kind of effeminacy might crush hisego, that fragile male ego so many men live by but need to pretendthey have not got! No way would I volunteer such statementsthough. Nor any others about where I'd been and what I'd beendoing, with whom, and how great it had been. George himself wouldhave to determine what he wanted to know and what he'd just as soonnot know. He'd ask and I'd answer his questions accordingly. So, no way would I take up Bruce's idea, sneakily condition.
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