I was reading T.S. Eliot aloud, while Robert sighed and smiled. His wife was moving back into the house, so I had to leave after breakfast. He wanted to end with teary orgasms and T.S. Eliot on our sheets. He ran his fingers up my spine. They felt like mosquitoes.

In a first reading, we might think it is a shared romantic situation, although if we reflect carefully the only romantic approach comes from the side of her. She expresses her feelings by means of poetry whereas he caresses her (“he ran his fingers up my spine”) and at no time plays along with her, he just lets her feel the cliché of reading a poem to the person she loves: he consents her falling in love. The physical and the romantic are confronted and not mixed.

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