"I had a dream about you. I opened your chest like a cabinet, it had doors, and when I opened the doors I saw all kinds of soft things inside you--teddy bears, tiny fuzzy animals, all these soft, cuddly things. Then I had a dream about this other man. He walked up to me and handed me some pieces of paper. He was a writer. I took the pieces of paper and looked at them. And the pieces of paper had cancer. His writing had cancer. I go by my dreams. You deserve some love."
"I don't want to fuck you over, Dee Dee," I said. "I'm not always good to women."
"I told you I love you."
"Don't do it. Don't love me."
"All right," she said, "I won't love you, I'll almost love you. Will that be all right?"
"It's much better than the other."
We finished our wine and went to bed. . . .
