on the surface robert seemed to have everything he had wished for. one afternoon we sat in his loft, surrounded by the proofs of his burgeoning success. the perfect studio, exquisite possessions, and the resources to realize anything he envisioned He was now a man; yet in his presence i still felt like a girl. He gave me a length of indian linen, a notebook and a paper Mache crow. the small things he had gathered during our long separation. We tried to fill in the spaces. “i played tim Hardin songs for my lovers and told them of you. i took photographs for a translation of Season In Hell for you.” i told him he had always been with me, part of who i am, just as he is at this moment.
Ever the protector, he promised, as he once did in our own portion of twenty-third Street, if need be we could share a real home. “if anything happens to Fred, please don’t worry. i’m getting a townhouse, a brownstone like Warhol had. You can come live with me. i’ll help you raise the kids.”
“Nothing will happen to Fred,” i assured him. He just looked away.
“We never had any children,” he said ruefully.
“our work was our children."引自第274页
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