I saw this movie with Cameron Diaz called The Box and it was sort of science fiction and she had a wig on or it might have been dye, but oftentimes a person’s hair is really a wig and it can take you five years just to notice it. Or I guess it could be a toupée. So secrets don’t surprise me now. I like finding things out and I read Wikipedia at work when I’m bored and six months ago I didn’t know where Norway was, three months, France, and there’s so much I could tell you now, if you’d only ask me. I have a photographic memory, a head of totally genuine hair and a box full of photos of people I used to fuck or mess around with or fancy, which is kind of a creepy mix considering most of them don’t even know me. And every time I look, each time they’re fished out, I could swear another turns out to be false. There’s always one more wig.
One day I’ll understand why I did it, reverted to the life I had, pretended I’d wanted it, that there weren’t pieces of me previously – my shirt buttons, shoes, elastic and stitching – that were all after you, ready to pinch you, shrink you in hot washes, seal you in packets and watch your breath collect as condensation in droplets at the bottom of bags. You made me forget the world ended as it ended around us and I never called your authority or questioned you having it and we didn’t need escape plans: I practiced balance with my yoga daily and I stretched you out on sleeping bags as my child slept and you said you’d play a part, you’d be a person I might need and you’d touch me when I asked and you’d have a flashlight handy and you’d walk me in the middle of the night when I needed a piss and you’d hold my unwashed hand on the way back, ready to own every inch as god watched. You’re dead now.