She remembered rain was only make believe. She planned her escape to the desert. She longed to return to dust remembering Conoco cactus coolers, frosted ocotillo, saguaro, prickly pear. She remembered rain makes you wet. Rain is only make believe. Rain safe within a tough and prickly skin. She planned her escape to the dust, denouncing his advice against plans.

They made love with words which spiraled down and in. They made love with words, stroking each other with the sound of their voices. They made love with words.

He referred to it as so much bad theatre. How he loved the grand gesture, powerful enough to eliminate ethics or reality. He placed posture above morality, gesture above act, word above truth. She proposed the possibility of dangerous games. He felt all games were divine. “Yes, yes, purely divine,” he said, gesticulating beyond the reach of his own arm.

She was growing older. Age was a fact. Facts were manifestations of reality. He did not deal in reality. Reality was, he said, her game. She grew older. She grew more realistic.

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