Clémentine comes over every day, and some days we sleep together, and some days we try not to but end up fucking anyway. It has happened; we need each other now. I need her, I am able to say, but I don’t understand this need, I have never been with a girl before, never knew I wanted a girl, until I wanted her, her body in her mesh bra, her mesh panties, my fingers on her, in her, learning what to do, afraid of being wrong, letting myself be led, it feels right, we keep going. Her hipbone in the morning light. Her body contracting under mine. My body one muscle that contracts and releases and contracts again, under her tongue, her fingers, her thighs. I think fleetingly of Jonathan, wonder is this a way to be close to him again, or was it always about Clémentine, this whole time? I try to turn my questions off. No what does this mean. It means in and of itself; alone it has meaning.

We don’t say things like I am yours and you are mine, we don’t make plans beyond the following weekend, where we’ll eat, where we’ll walk. We are each pinned in our situations; we couldn’t afford to run away together and we know it without discussing it. All her radical politics, her Deleuzian critique of psychoanalysis, can’t spring us free.