Chapter 16

And later, while on the patio during a rainstorm, I studied Isaac’s lips on Nebraska’s chest. I heard him whisper to H. Maximiliani, “I’ve fallen for you,” or something like that. Isaac dragged a tongue over the photographer’s right nipple, the cords lining his neck, and eventually connected their mouths together. After pulling away, my father whispered, “Nicholas…he doesn’t understand what we have…He’ll never understand what we have.” He then mentioned how happy he was with Nebraska: cleansed, filled with rightfulness, so content. “Nicholas hates us…He’ll always hate us. There will never be a sense of healing.” And then: “I’m selfish about your skin, needy of it, the method of my desire. I needed you twenty years ago. Where were you? Where were you? Where were—”

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