“I visit him a few times downtownwhile he paints.We talk about how he's going to Spainfor the fall semesterand he shows me a painting he didand points to this one part,a bridge, and tells me he thought of mewhen he painted it.It is so sadhow knowing somethingso smallcan make me so happy.”

“I was a masterpiece; a painting in itself. He was changing me, molding me, and making me into something brand new. I was a blank canvas when I came to him, ready to absorb all the paint he would slather on me. He kept going, adding layer upon layer, sometimes even shedding them just so I could turn out beautiful. And he was done now, ready to let me leave and display me on a wall for people to see.”

“We sat there, not talking, for a few minutes. He ate the Moon Pie; only skinny people can scarf down junk food like that. Finally, I said, "Norman?""Yeah?""Are you ever going to show me the painting?""Man," he said. "You are, like, so impatient.""I am not," I said. "I've been waiting forever.""Okay, okay." He stood up and went over to the corner, picking up the painting and bringing it over to rest against the bright pink belly of one of the mannequins. Then, he handed me a bandana. "Tie that on.”

“Because he tells me. All the fucking time. I’m precious to him and I know it because he shows me and he tells me. It’s beautiful. It’s real. It’s right.”

“The fact that he does not tell me the truth all the time makes me not sure of his truth at certain times, and then I work to figure out for myself if what he is telling me is the truth or not, and sometimes I can figure out that it's not the truth and sometimes I don't know and never know, and sometimes just because he says it to me over and over again I am convinced it is the truth because I don't believe he would repeat a lie so often. Maybe the truth does not matter, but I want to know it if only so that I can come to some conclusions about such questions as: whether he is angry at me or not; if he is, then how angry; whether he still loves her or not; if he does, then how much; whether he loves me or not; how much; how capable he is of deceiving me in the act and after the act in the telling.”

“A tiny part of my heart is so happy to see him safe and laughing, but the other part is a black pit that threatens to suck all of me into it. He is happy without me. He is laughing without me. But what about me?”