H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 5

The Bodie of the MOOR - the Invitatione - the Transactione of Menials - PIGRITES demandeth his Libertie - Is hired - Before the Maison - Cupidity of Drink - PIGRITES engageth a Ladie of Ill-Repute

H. looked around nervously, waiting for someone to make the first move. The crowd was still in a state of agitation as its constituents tried to decide whether life had been torn from the body before them justifiably or not. At length the Persian with the sword stepped forward from the hubbub and clapped H. on the shoulders.
"Good show, lad. I owed that Arab son of a bitch all kinds of money, so much it would make your beard go straight." He laughed, and then suddenly appeared grave. "Of course, I had nothing to do with this."
H. gulped. "Of course not."
"That's right. Now that that's out of the way, why not retire to my estate? We're having a few people over, a few of the right people, you understand, and I think you'll be most welcome, seeing as nobody really liked our friend here." He shot a disdainful glance toward the fallen Arab, whose retinue of slaves was still cowering in the darkness outside the theater. The Persian waved a hand in their direction.
"Well, those are yours by right of conquest. I doubt his family will be making much of a fuss. He was a pariah, you see, killed his brother - or maybe your slave knew this when he so effectively dispatched him?" He grinned.
H. put his palms up, facing his interlocutor.
"I have enough to handle in Pigrites, thank you. I'll sell them to you for, I don't know, five minas of silver?"
The Persian's grin broadened.
"Done. Let's be off." He called out to his own retinue of magnificently attired slaves. "You two! Bring those home now. Don't let them get away. Go, boy! Go!" He whistled loudly and the two slaves sprang into action. The Persian began to make his way home, and several of the theater-goers walked with him, laughing and occasionally pointing back at H., who had fallen into line a little ways behind, among the crowd of trailing slaves, and Pigrites with him. Pigrites was still covered in blood, and walked with his head bowed. The Persian slaves were doing little to hide their admiration for their bold compatriot, much to the dismay of their masters, who sent their whip-bearers into the crowds to disabuse them of any notions of revolt. The slaves scattered, and fell even further behind. Now out of earshot, with the crowd of laughing Persians before him, and the slaves trailing forlornly behind, H. spoke without looking at his companion.
"What were you thinking?"
Pigrites did not look up.
"He was going to kill you."
They walked for a while in silence, passing through the darkened streets of Asur, empty except for a few pimps lurking in the archways and slaves advertising the local bawdy-houses. The road began to incline, and they found themselves making their way slowly up hill.
"This leads to the noble estates," said Pigrites.
H. barely heard him.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Pigrites mumbled something.
H. was incensed.
"Boy, you answer me."
Pigrites stopped, and fixed his master with a look. H. was suddenly afraid.
"H.," he said, not bothering any longer with the honorific, "you owe me. I saved your life."
H. met his gaze but said nothing.
"You owe me," he repeated, this time a little more menacingly.
H. cleared his throat.
"And what will you do when I free you?"
Pigrites thought for a moment.
"I'll need work, of course."
H. nodded slowly.
"As a bodyguard?"
"As bodyguard, as concierge, as scribe - I am a man of many talents. I think you're familiar with my work."
H. watched the torches of the Persians in the distance. They had fallen far behind, and the slaves were now passing them. He turned back to Pigrites.
"And how much must I pay for the privilege of employing you?"
"One and a half drachmas a day, not including expenses."
H. mulled the proposition over. This was more than the average skilled mercenary soldier charged, and they had to handle their own expenses. On the other hand, he was terrified of what his slave might do if refused.
"Fine."
A small smile creased Pigrites' lips.
"Wonderful. I'll see you in the morning."
His former slave started back down the hill. H., wondering for a moment, hastened to catch up with his Persian host. A few minutes' jogging caught him up to his host's party. They looked back and cheered as H. arrived. The man with the sword raised his hands and laughed.
"Ah, we thought we had lost you. Come on, we're almost there."
Torches were visible in the distance. These marked the entrance to his host's estate. A pair of footmen stood before the door, scimitars on the belts holding up their garish blue trousers. Seeing the approach of their master, they turned, pulled open the heavy wooden doors, and stood stiffly at attention beside. His host stopped before the doors and turned to address his following.
"Gentlemen, this evening is dedicated to our Greek friend here, who has brought us so much merriment and, what's more, relief!" Some of the men laughed and cheered. "We shall drink to his good health inside. You there!" He pointed at one of his slaves, the group of which had now come into earshot. "Have the kitchen send out the wine. I should like to begin drinking immediately." More cheers.
H. laughed at his host's comments and cheered along with his fellows. He was about to thank his host for his generosity, when he realized that he had no idea what his name was. He leaned over to the Persian next to him.
"I say, whose home is this?"
The man looked at him for a moment, puzzled, before answering in heavily-accented Greek.
"Why, this is the home of Keffir, whom you see before you."
H. nodded and thanked the man. He took a breath:
"I should also like to thank Keffir for his generosity. May the gods bless his household forever."
Keffir beamed.
"You must meet my daughter, friend Greek. She has always liked people her own height."
The men laughed once more, indulging their host, who now began to lead them inside. H. followed, eager for what he was sure would be excellent wine.

Now back in town, Pigrites moved rapidly, focused on a single object. It had been so long. He fingered the few coins he had in his pouch in anticipation. Moving through the darkness, he suddenly found his way blocked by a greasy-looking Persian, all sly grin and flashing teeth.
"Need company?" the pimp asked simply, holding out his hand.
Pigrites reached out and dropped his coins into the open palm. A moment passed as the man felt out the weight of the coins in the darkness. Finally he turned and motioned for Pigrites to follow. They passed through a low arch and descended a staircase illuminated only by the splotchy light cast from a filthy oil lamp. A bouncer with a wicked-looking dagger stood aside and let them pass. They now came into a cramped basement apartment. This held several well-used divans, which themselves held several seemingly bored naked Persian women. The pimp held out his hand, directing Pigrites to pick one. He indicated the one bearing the fewest cuts. The pimp whistled and pointed at the girl. She stood and sauntered off into a side room. The pimp turned to Pigrites.
"You get two passes of the hourglass. If you want more, you pay." He turned a sand-filled glass jar on its side, and made ready to pull the stopper. Pigrites licked his lips and hastened to his room.
The room wasn't much more than a few blankets spread over the cold stone floor, with cushions for bolster. The girl lay against these, her legs spread, apparently eager to earn her pay.
Pigrites grinned. "Hi."
The girl smiled at him, but it was the practiced smile of the courtesan. She pushed up her breasts and begged him to lie with her.
Pigrites stepped out of his clothing and fell into her embrace. Warm flesh. It had been so long. Their lips met. He kissed, with passion, she with practiced reserve. His hands found purchase in every curve. He drew closer and availed himself of the services on offer.
It was not long before he heard the pimp call out.
"Not much longer. Already one pass."
Pigrites sighed.

Studies in Pity: Hitchhiking for Love on the Information Superhighway and Other Bad Metaphors, part 1

Since Studies in Pity will almost certainly be the topic of the 2011 Massey Lectures it's time now to come up with some more material, to delve deep into the black morass of human emotion to see what can be dredged up. We have already examined madness bred in extreme solitude, have examined artwork bred of extreme madness, and witnessed extreme slavishness born of madness; now we look toward the most catholic of human experiences, this being love, and the pity it occasions. Put on your diving suit, turn on your high-intensity diving light, steel thy heart, and wade in with me. Watch out for seaweed strands of desperation, lest they snatch you and prevent you from returning to the loveless world of reality.

Our first visit is to the Winnipeg branch of craiglist.com, one of several popular classifieds sites on the Internet. This site acts as a virtual version of the classifieds page in your local newspaper, wherein, entirely free of charge, one can advertise one's wares, whether car, boat, or half-bottle of Percocet, and then browse the advertisements made by others. When that becomes boring, one can then post in the "rants and raves" section about how much one hates Natives and bad drivers (both of whom will form the bases of Studies in Pity yet to come). When one becomes horny one can direct one's browser to the "personals" section of craigslist, where one can try their luck in sighting warm bodies awaiting love's completion. This is our task.

Item One: Jesus saves but does not provide earth-shattering orgasms

Hello there :)

Ideally I'm looking for a virgin, Christian guy with his head on his shoulders. Someone compassionate about life and ambitious. As well ideally I'd be looking for someone 18-19. I'm wanting an honest relationship with someone that's understanding, not afraid to be wrong and fun. .

I'm a cute, mature, fit female looking for mr.right I guess you could say haha :)

Please attach a picture of yourself and even if you don't think you fit into everything i listed off...there's no harm in sending a message my way and seeing what happens...is there?

For the subject please describe yourself in 2 words! (something a little different)
Take care :)

The words, of course, are just adorable, but it's the picture which is really heartbreaking - you will notice that the reflection in the mirror spells out the first personal plural pronoun. But why are "you" in the shadows? Is she looking for a black man? Who knows. More difficult are her age and experience requirements: 18-19 and untried in the contest of love. Will our mature, fit female ever find a strapping-yet-virginal baptized teenage boy to satisfy her carnal needs? Even if she could, what would the neighbours say about such an unholy union? And one can only imagine what monstrosities the two-word subject requirement will give rise to:

Huge Cock
Cock, Large
Teen Cock
Hung Sexy
Big Pimpin'
Stylin' Right
Love Hungry
Sweet Sensitive
Bargain Hunter
Pussy Magnet
Ass Man

Well, there are some examples for you if you're going to e-mail her. Don't forget that you have to be a "Christian virgin," so, once you've had your fill of non-alcoholic cider and Seventh Heaven reruns and have coaxed your elderly lover into the bedroom, make sure you make a show of removing the cross dangling around your neck before you get into bed, and spend a while fumbling with her bra strap, claiming "you've never done this before." Once you're in, whisper that now you know "what God looks like" before squeezing out a few tears - this should ensure that she doesn't invite you back for another session. If she does, marry her.

Item Two: "I will look at you."

just want the shy nerdy lady??????? - m4w - 51

yes you are the one,although you have a nice body no one takes a second look at you ,it didn,t matter if you were in high school ,university or college or just in the mall. well this man wants you,any race,no use you missing out any longer,meet me in the mall,i will look at you.

This advertisement comes from the "casual encounters" section. "Casual encounters" contains nothing but solicitations from men seeking a sex partner of either gender; it is absolutely impossible to find a woman advertising herself here. This shouldn't be surprising, but it is worth pointing out. Our subject here is actually quite typical, there being two types of men seeking casual encounters: young gays, and old men trapped in loveless marriages who salivate over their daughter's friends. Here we clearly have an example of the latter, though one with an admirable tolerance for the sexual organs of lesser races: "this man wants you," we are told, "any race." How nice. You-of-any-race must of course have a rockin' bod before he will even consider looking at you, but, if you do, rest assured that he will look at you. He says so in the last line of his entry: "I will look at you." This is the rub: he doesn't want to have sex with you, he just wants to look, to feast his eyes on some "shy nerdy lady." One, two hours will pass as he ravishes you with his peepers, sucking down Johnny Walker and chain-smoking cigarillos. He won't ask you to dance, or strip, or to do anything else, but, after he has satisfied himself, will simply stuff twenty dollars into your pants before hustling you off. Don't call him again, because it will be his wife who answers, and she will not be pleased to learn of his kinda-sorta infidelity (imagine the awkwardness of that conversation, please). Instead, enjoy your money, spend it on something to make you feel pretty, but not too pretty, because then strange old illiterate men will not lust after you.

Item Three: Emporiontis, Greek god of erotic discount shopping

Eye contact at Superstore - w4m - 20

Last week, you were ahead of my mother and I in line at Superstore.
You were wearing a brown leather jacket with jeans and an Orlando Bloom type ponytail. I couldn't help but think that you looked like a beautiful Greek God.
I had to ask you to move so I could get my cart by you. We made eye contact and I felt shivers go up my spine.

Just so I know it's you, in your email please tell me which Superstore location we were at.

-Greek Goddess

Well, here we are. Life hasn't gone the way we wanted it to go. We're lonely, miserable, saddled with three children, bills, fried-chicken dinners. We're shopping, again. Dad's in jail, again. The cart rolls along, one wheel sticking, burdened down by bulk cases of pizza pockets and corn dogs (why are the kids so fat?). You're not even sure if the Trans Am is going to make it home this time.

That's when it happens. From the maze of fluorescent dome lights above a beam of dazzling brightness shoots down, illuminating a single object, a more-than-man standing at the checkout counter. Clad in leather and denim, his frayed pony-tail stirred majestically by the breezes issuing forth from the HVAC system, he is as a Greek god. His broad shoulders, his sagging gut, his granite jaw, his impeccable fashion sense: all speak to his divinity. You nearly swoon, but recover just in time to see him cast a glance in your direction, (those magnetic brown eyes!). He is gone. He's forgotten to pack away a red pepper. You take the pepper and hold it close, promising to treasure it forever. "Now now, my sweet," you whisper to your relic, before tucking it away in your purse. You will have to seek him out. He lives not on Olympus, of course, but on the Internet, just as all modern gods do.

H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 4

The Very Fine Gardenne - H. near to Fainting in the Gallerye - Pigrites arouseth the Gentry with an Addresse - H. incipitates his Tale - a single Inverity therein - Pangnosis, grandchilde of Jove - the Clergy of Miletus, like unto our Abbottes - The Tablettes of Science - Science Betook by Bandits and Scoundrels - The MOOR, purveyor of paprika, returneth - He seeketh PIGRITES - The clashe of Steelle - H. unmanned - An misfortunate Ende for the MOOR - H. seeketh Lodging

The sun was setting on the common garden of Asur. The imperial gardeners, a hard day's work finished, returned to their homes and yelled at their wives, as was the Persian custom. The quality of their work was evident even to the casual garden visitor. Six tiny irrigation streams flowing from the Erydna watered a lush cornucopia of vegetation: trees, shrubs, flowers of all kinds, imported from all over the empire. Marble statues, many of Greek gods and probably sculpted by Ionians, nestled amid the greenery, at ease beside the occasional, more abstract Zoroastrian-themed work. Shadows danced, occasioned by the wicker torches fixed in the ground at regular intervals. A small theater, commissioned at the request of the local Greek community, lay at the inner edge of the park, close enough to the Erydna to receive the cool evening breeze wafting in from it. It was hard not to feel at ease here.
And yet, behind the unpainted skene of the theater, H. paced nervously. Where were the people? Not a single seat had yet been filled. He began to rehearse his stories once more.
Some time later, he heard voices from the seats. He peeked out from behind the skene, and saw a few Persians standing before the entrance to the theater, chatting. They were well-dressed, their dark beards were neatly-braided, and they had retinues with them. H. was elated: these were exactly the sort of people he had been looking for.
Pigrites appeared from the darkness beyond the theater and ushered them up to their seats, which overlooked the circular orchestra. Questioned about the nature of the night's event, his slave would give up nothing.
This process was repeated a few more times over the next hour, until at last the theater was almost full. With great dignity, Pigrites advanced to the orchestra, whence he looked up at his audience.
"Noble sirs, an unforgettable experience has been promised you; be assured that we intend to deliver . My master, who levies no fee, who asks nothing but your indulgence, has come to the great and prosperous city of Asur to inform you of his many remarkable discoveries. He is a learned man, a sage, and his opinion carries great weight among his people."
With this, Pigrites left the orchestra and disappeared behind the skene. Quiet reigned.
H. swallowed nervously. He had prepared for this. He took a long draught from the cup of wine which had been set out for him and, now filled with the god, he strode out onto the orchestra floor.
All eyes were on him. Some men chuckled slightly when they realized he was a Greek: surely, they thought, this is just another quack doctor peddling his wares. These folded their hands over their ample bellies and prepared themselves to be entertained.
H. cleared his throat and raised his right hand.
"A moment for trivialities, gentlemen. I must know if there will be any difficulties understanding my language. I, regrettably, have not been blessed with training in your noble tongue, and am forced to employ to my own."
A Persian in the front row barked a reply, in Greek:
"Age! Get on with it, Greekling. We know your tongue. How could we not? You people never shut up; we learn it even unwilling."
The men laughed, and H. smiled magnanimously.
"Eien. Then my people have brought you some knowledge already, at no cost to yourselves. I propose to bring your further knowledge still. I am a traveler from the Ionian city of Halicarnassus. I have been to many places, and learned much. I have conferred with the priests of Miletus, seen the ruins of ancient cities on Samos, have supped with Scythians on the steppes." This last was a lie; he had not yet been to Scythia. The crowd looked on, waiting for the hook. H. continued.
"Tales abound of an island city which, ten thousand years ago, sank into the sea. Some say it lies far to the west, beyond the Pillars of Heracles, in the River Ocean. This is a lie." The crowd murmured and leaned forward collectively. "First, I must tell you about the priests at Miletus, from whom one part of this story comes. The story begins with Pangnosis, a grandson of Zeus and gifted with the knowing of everything. When he had been taught to read and write, Pangnosis, realizing that he was mortal (only direct progeny of gods can live on Olympus, after all), thought that it would be important to record his knowledge. He gathered about him all the scribes alive at that time (the priests tell me that this was six thousand years ago, but I do not believe them, because at that time the Titans were still at war with the Olympians, and the gods had not yet had children; we can assume it was a long time ago, however) and bade them record his utterances. At first the scribes did not know why they should trust Pangnosis. They were busy with palace work, they would say, and would try to leave. One by one, however, Pangnosis told to them their darkest secrets, and all of them, shocked by his impossible accuracy, were persuaded to stay with him. For the next eighty years, up until his death, the scribes recorded his every utterance. Much of it was worthless, as Pangnosis had a tendency to get fixated on a single subject, which he would pursue until it was exhausted. A digression could take months, and many tablets were filled detailing such things as the mating rituals of creatures at the bottom of the sea, or else the ten thousand kinds of snowflakes at the top of a mountain. But often he would say something wise and interesting, and these things too were recorded on the tablets. After his death, the scribes (or rather, their own descendants, as many had died and been replaced for their children while working for Pangnosis) vowed to preserve this knowledge. A great library was built to house the tablets and to study them. The library was said to have had ten thousand rooms, each dedicated to one of the subjects on which Pangnosis lectured. However, over the millennia many of the tablets were lost to pirates and invading armies. You see, the tablets were all made of gold or silver, materials which were very common in the time of Pangnosis (it being the golden age). As time passed, these metals receded into the earth and were no longer common, so men looking for easy plunder, having come to know of the library from word of mouth, went there to steal the tablets and melt them down. Eventually, only a few tablets were left: one detailing the perfect recipe for mead, another bearing a copy of the peace treaty between peoples called the Tubus and Porphyrnians (about whom we know nothing), and finally a set of tablets containing the true history of the island city we call Atlantis. The descendants of the original scribes, their numbers now very few thanks to constant warfare, now resolved to spirit these tablets away. They went on a boat to the place where the city of Miletus now is, and they stayed there, dedicating themselves to studying the few tablets that remained. Unfortunately, these tablets too disappeared, appropriated by the king of the city of that era in order to fund his insane war against the Assyrians (who were dominant at that time in Asia). Fortunately, the scribes had committed to memory the contents of the tablets, and they passed this down through the generations. Anyway, this is what the Milesian priests tell me, and I believe them, because I have tasted their mead and it is the finest in the world. The Samian priests tell almost the exact same story, except that they say that the descendants of the scribes came to Samos, and that it is they who possess the true story of Atlantis, but I do not believe them, because although they maintain they received the recipe for the world's best mead, in fact their mead is quite ordinary, similar to that which one could find in any poor deme of Attica. So much for the origin of the story."
H. took a deep breath. At this signal, Pigrites rushed out from behind the stage with his cup of wine, which H. in short order drained, then disappeared. The crowd spurred him onward, entranced. H. was about to continue, until he saw a figure standing at the right hand entrance to the theater. This man, an Arab, was glowering at H., and apparently had been doing so for some time. He marched onto the orchestra floor and, pointing an accusing finger at H., denounced him before the small crowd.
"This man is charlatan! Beware lest he make false promises, rob you and sully the good name of your daughters!"
A chill went down H.'s spine. It was the spice merchant from Ephesus. What were the odds that he would have followed him to Asur?
He bellowed at H.
"Where is my slave? Pigrites? Where are you?"
Pigrites emerged slowly from behind the skene. The crowd looked on, enthralled by the drama before them.
The Arab merchant pointed to the ground in front of him.
"Come here. Now."
Pigrites stood his ground, and looked to H. for support. H. folded his arms over his chest.
"Now hold on. Pigrites here is my property now. You didn't follow through on your promise to get me audience with the tyrant."
The merchant was apoplectic.
"Fuck your mother, Greekling!" Several members of the audience registered their offence at this impropriety with loud cries. "I guaranteed nothing! Hadocles is a fearful, paranoid man, and does not invite to his house every sniveling child from the colonies just because they ask for it."
H. stood, saying nothing. The man had a point: he hadn't guaranteed anything. The knot in his belly told him this wasn't going to end well, and the spinning of the room told him he had once again drank too much wine.
The Arab drew a curved sword from his sash. The glint of polished bronze in the flickering torchlight was an awesome sight.
A man from the crowd stood up and raised his hands.
"Ho there! This isn't a fair fight at all. Our Greekling has no weapon." He pulled another sword from his own belt, this a short one, better suited to stabbing than slashing. He tossed this to H., who caught it gingerly, being not particularly experienced in the handling of such implements. Nevertheless, he held it before him as though he had been using such things all his life, hoping to inspire some fear his opponent. The Arab laughed.
"All this for a little slave? I hope he sucks your dick real nice, Greekling." The Arab brandished his sword and began to advance on H., who retreated a short distance. They began to orbit the circle of the orchestra, each seeking an advantage over the other.
The crowd, now standing, began to cheer on their favourites.
The Arab roared and surged forward, swinging wildly at H., who parried the blows by pure instinct, but was driven backward almost into the crowd, the members of whom now swayed backwards, not wanting to get involved in the fight. H. now took the offensive and lunged clumsily at the Arab, who danced around the blow and poked H. in the thigh the with the tip of his scimitar. The pain was incredible, but it could easily have been a killing stroke; he was being toyed with, he realized.
The Arab merchant put his sword on his shoulder.
"Come now, this is almost a joke. Why don't you just have your slave fight for you? I was going to kill him in any case once I was through with you."
The crowd laughed at his challenge.
Suddenly, Pigrites pushed through the crowd and took his place on the orchestra floor. He snatched the sword from his master, who stepped back automatically. Wordlessly, with a look of grim concentration on his face, Pigrites launched himself at his former master. Surprised by this sudden onslaught, the Arab took a step backward to brace himself. This was all that was needed: Pigrites spun on his heel and delivered a brutal snap kick to the Arab's gut. The crowd gasped. Doubled over, the merchant put up his sword in a feeble gesture of defiance, but to no avail, for Pigrites moved in with astonishing swiftness and, gripping the long hair of his former master, exposing his neck with a quick jerk, he ran the edge of his own sword across it. Dark blood bubbled up around the sword as it split his throat open, and the Arab fell to the ground, kicking spasmodically. His sword clattered beside him. For the next few moments, all that could be heard was the gooey gurgling of the once-fearsome Arab as the life ebbed from him. Then, he was dead.
Pigrites, covered in sweat, wiped the gore from the blade on the trousers of the dead Arab merchant. He handed it back to the Persian who had given it to H. The Persian looked at the slave in astonishment. Pigrites addressed the crowd:
"Tonight has been very trying for my master. If any of you would be so kind as to lodge him for the night, he would gladly share with you the benefit of his wisdom. As you can see," he said, gesturing to the fallen body nearby, "he has acquired many enemies in his tireless pursuit of knowledge."
The crowd murmured.

Epistles: from the Road

Dear Rob,

It's dark as I write this. I'm holding a Maglite in my teeth - sorry so sloppy. Timing belt snapped. It's the only spare part we don't have. Even if we did, it would be a hell of a job to fix it. Nobody's come this way for hours. We're stuck for now. If nobody comes by nine tomorrow morning we'll walk 'till our phone can get a signal. We're about 150 km west out of town. We turned onto the logging road fifteen km ago. Not a light to be seen whichever way you look.

Jess is sulking in the car. She can't handle things like this. Something doesn't go according to plan, she breaks down. I think she's crying. I feel like crying, but I'm not going to. It can't be helped. We'll wait and count stars and listen to the crickets. Well, I will, anyway. It's cold, but it could be colder. We'll survive. Two weeks from now it will have been "an adventure" - that's the way she'll tell it to all of our friends. Her fear will be glossed over. Her childishness will be made myth - the audience will understand that hers was a natural reaction. I, as always, will be the stoic Man, the Rock, the to-be-relied-upon. My name condemns me. My feelings won't figure into the story. How could they? The humour would be lessened. Audience and couple will once more express their reverence for that Ideal, the one that says the girl must be girly and the man manly. I could use less girly right about now.

This trip was supposed to be exciting, a break from the ordinary. Instead, in the tiny world of the car, all problems are amplified. That feminine lack of perspective. You know what I mean. Molehills become moons, breaking out of orbit, threatening the extinction of happier planets. The tension is never resolved, just swallowed. There's no relief in love-making, just a mutual, grunting acknowledgment of animal desire. We've brought too much of the ordinary with us in this tiny hatchback; amazing we could fit it all in, what with her FIVE traveling cases. I'm not amused by this anymore. It's not cute or endearing. Sorry to ramble.

She's stopped crying, I think. I'm supposed to go comfort her. I will, of course. For the sake of this trip we have to get along (our liking one another is always contingent on something else). A counterfeit kiss, then waking hours. She'll sleep, I won't. Good night, Rob.

-Peter