She says, what do you smell?
I say, washing-up.
She says, it is an antiseptic. I feel I have become soaked in antiseptic, to the marrow of my bones. It has come to upset me.
I say, it would be better if we ceased this discussion for a while, and had some food. We could talk about the food, I have fish fingers again.
She says, I have never told you this but the fish fingers always taste of antiseptic. Everything …
I say, you could have told me later, as we progressed. It is not important. It is good that you didn’t say, you should not have said, even now, you should have kept it for later.
She says, I’m not hungry, I would rather tell you the truth.
I say, I would rather you didn’t.
She says, you know George?
I say, you have mentioned him.
My hands are all of an itch. They have moved to her outermost garment, a peculiar coat, like the coat of a man’s suit. I help her out of it and fold it gently.
She says, George and my son … you remember.
I say, yes, I remember vaguely, only vaguely … if you could refresh my memory.
She says, you are teasing me.
I deny it.
I have started with the next upper garment, a sweater of some description which has a large number 7 on the back. She holds her arms up to make it easier to remove. She says (her voice muffled by the sweater which is now over her head), I made up George, and the son.
I pretend not to hear.
She says, did you hear what I said?
I say, I am not sure.
She says, I made up George and my son … they were daydreams.
I say, you could have kept that for next year. You could have told me at Christmas, it would have been something to look forward to.
She says, how can you look forward to something you don’t know is coming?
I say, I know, I knew, that everything was coming, sooner or later, in its own time. I was in no hurry. I have perhaps five years left, it would have filled up the years.
She says, you are talking strangely today.
I say, it has been forced on me.
There is another garment, a blue cardigan, slightly grubby, but still a very pretty blue.
I say, what a beautiful blue.
She says, it is a powder blue.
I say, it is very beautiful, it suits you.
She says, oh, it is not really for me, it belonged to my sister … my younger sister.
I say, you never mentioned your younger sister.
She says, you never asked me.
I say, it was intentional.
Now I have all but lost control. The conversation goes on above or below me, somewhere else. I have removed the powder blue cardigan and the red, white, and blue embroidered sweater beneath it. Likewise a blouse which I unfortunately ripped in my haste. I apologized but she only bowed her head meekly.
She says, you have never told me anything about yourself … where you work …
I am busy with the second blouse, a white silk garment that looks almost new. I say, distractedly, it is as I said, I am unemployed.
She says, but before …
I say, I worked for the government for a number of years, a clerk …
She says, and before that?
I say, I was at school. It has not been very interesting. There have been few interesting things. Very boring, in fact. What I have had I have eked out, I have made it last, if you understand me, made my few pleasures last. On one occasion I made love to a lady of my acquaintance for thirty-two hours, she was often asleep.
She smiles at me. She says, that sounds …
I say, the pity was it was only thirty-two hours, because after that I had to go home, and I had nothing left to do. There was nothing for years after that. It should be possible to do better than thirty-two hours.
She smiles again. I feel I may drown in a million gallons of milk. She says, we can do better than that.
I say, I know, but I had wished it for later. I had wished to save it up for several Christmases from now.
She says, it seems silly … to wait.
As I guessed, her breasts are large and heavy. I remove the last blouse to reveal them, large and soft with small taut nipples. I transfer my attentions to her skirt, then to a second skirt, and thence to a rather tattered petticoat. Her stockings, I see, are attached to a girdle. I begin to unroll the stocking, unrolling it slowly down the length of her leg. Then the second stocking. And the girdle.
Now she sits, warm and naked, beside me, smiling.
There is only one thing left, an earring on the left ear.
I extend my hand to take it, but she grasps my hand.
She says, leave it.
I say, no.
She says, yes.
I am compelled to use force. I grasp the earring and pull it away. It is not, it would appear, an earring at all, but a zip or catch of some sort. As I pull, her face, then her breasts, peel away. Horrified, I continue to pull, unable to stop until I have stripped her of this unexpected layer.
Standing before me is a male of some twenty odd years. His face is the same as her face, his hair the same. But the breasts have gone, and the hips; they lie in a soft spongy heap on the floor beside the discarded pendant.
She (for I must, from habit, continue to refer to her as “she”) seems as surprised as I am. She takes her penis in her hand, curious, kneading it, watching it grow. I watch fascinated. Then I see, on the right ear, a second earring.
I say, excuse me.
She is too preoccupied with the penis to see me reach for the second earring and give it a sharp pull. She sheds another skin, losing, this time, the new-found penis and revealing, once more, breasts, but smaller and tighter. She is, generally, slimmer, although she was never fat before.
I notice here that she is wearing a suspender belt and stockings. I unroll the first stocking and find the leg is disappearing as I unroll. I have no longer any control over myself. The right leg has disappeared. I begin to unroll the left stocking. The leg, perhaps sensitive to the light, disappears with the rolling.
She sits, legless, on the bed, apparently bemused by the two coats of skin on the floor.
I touch her hair, testing it. A wig. Underneath a bald head.
I take her hand, wishing to reassure her. It removes itself from her body. I am talking to her. Touching her, wishing that she should answer me. But with each touch she is dismembered, slowly, limb by limb. Until, headless, armless, legless, I carelessly lose my grip and she falls to the floor. There is a sharp noise, rather like breaking glass.
Bending down I discover among the fragments a small doll, hairless, eyeless, and white from head to toe.
A Windmill in the West
The soldier has been on the line for two weeks. No one has come. The electrified fence stretches across the desert, north to south, south to north, going as far as the eye can see without bending or altering course. In the heat its distant sections shimmer and float. Only at dusk do they return to their true positions. With the exception of the break at the soldier’s post the ten-foot-high electrified fence is uninterrupted. Although, further up the line, perhaps twenty miles along, there may be another post similar or identical to this one. Perhaps there is not. Perhaps the break at this post is the only entry point, the only exit point — no one has told him. No one has told him anything except that he must not ask questions. The officer who briefed him told the soldier only what was considered necessary: that the area to the west could be considered the United States, although, in fact, it was not; that the area to the east of the line could be considered to be Australia, which it was; that no one, with the exception of U.S. military personnel carrying a special pass from Southern Command, should be permitted to cross the line at this point. They gave him a photostat copy of an old pass, dated two years before, and drove him out to the line in a Ford truck. That was all.