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Show 80 But since when is Love 'anarchy'? Since when is Love, 'a mother's hand moving along an auto-parts assembly line in Detroit'? Please! Mr. Hunt: please; paint me!" Hunt's lungs felt clamped. "Let me change my clothes," he said. She arrived at his room wearing only a raincoat. "That's unnecessary," Hunt said. "Yes." Her flesh was white. Hunt began. Her flesh was ridged everywhere, ribbed; her bones were flesh. There was no division. There were scars. Why was he doing this?! She wanted to be painted next to the mirror, peering in. It seemed to Hunt that she was searching for herself. She stood with hands wrapped around her abdomen. She had invisible hips. Her breasts seemed the merest memories of themselves. "How will it be?" she asked. "Can you see anything? Will it be substantial?" "I've just begun," Hunt cautioned. "I've barely more now than an outline." The phone rang. "Mr. Hunt? Mr. Freeman! Is everything all right?" "Fine." "I'm sending over champagne. Would you like a plate of mixed Polynesian appetizers?" "No. I'm . . ." "What do you drink? I'll put a fifth on the cart. Scotch? Blended? |