I think about the dangerously hot subway taking him to Coney Island. I imagine his face, boyish and well carved- prettier than mine, his aberent green eyes would flash with annoyance at the sweat trickling down his brow his curls absorbing the moisture and framing his thick brows. I can see his face. Can you?

This soul, this human being, this person had a name.

I wonder if they understood his preference before or after. I wonder how all this began.

Did they meet you in the car on the way? Did they watch you, observe your behaviour analyse if you would be the one ?

I don’t talk about you. I wonder does that bother you? People try to ask me their morals forgotten in desperate need to glean information about it. It was in the newspaper they say, arms folded, heads shaking declaring ‘terrible’ ‘shocking’  or ‘disgraceful’ -It was in the newspaper so therefore it’s my right to know. It is not your right to know. There will be no Netflix documentary, no book or Hollywood film.

No one has the right to know.

Yet some people do know.

It is their shame that they know. They don’t want to talk about you either. They keep your name silent like I do. They bury the memory of you like they buried their heads in the sand.




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