When we kiss, there are people watching, but we don’t get a kick of it the way women do in Crash, and men. We’re not the sort to give snatches of our webcam selves. We wouldn’t sell a photograph for money if it could later incriminate us; you don’t need much evidence to destroy teaching careers, marriages, pop stars’ lives.
And these people, watching, are those that could take empires down, having lain in wait for at least eight months, or maybe just four. They’ve cried themselves sleeping, wondering if they’ll get their lottery shot, cash advance, salaried job, finally.
But not everyone gets what they wait for, pay for, pray or wish for. Not everyone gets their fucking wish.