—13—

WASN’T I petrified altogether? I don’t know what got into me man. It was like last night when he threw them eejits into the Grand Canal. Is that what a man is like when he’s really passionate, like he wants to absorb everything you are? I felt like he had stripped off all me clothes—though I had done that meself—and all me fears and all me defenses and all me inhibitions and that all that was left was meself. He adored me, every inch of me. He wanted me with ferocious hunger, all of me; he couldn’t do without me; he HAD to have me.

He’s never been that way before.

It was frightening but wonderful. I wouldn’t resist, couldn’t resist, didn’t want to resist. I didn’t know what would have happened, but I wanted to find out.

Then he stopped. Why?

Because he knew that I would be no good at that sort of thing?

I would like to have had a chance to see if I could respond to such fierce need.

Is that wrong to think? Would I have been only a sex object?

I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I don’t know.

Anyway, after we swam and ate lunch and came back here to the room, we did make love. Very gentle, very nice, very reassuring. But it was nothing like what had been about to happen when he stopped.

Maybe I should have responded with the same hunger. I almost did. He didn’t give me quite enough time. If he does it again, won’t I claw at his clothes and be just as fierce as he was?

Will I?

Maybe.

Wouldn’t that be wrong?

I know if You talked back at me You would tell me that it is a ridiculous question.

The next time I talk to me ma, I’ll have to ask her whether men really act that way sometimes and what a woman should do. Maybe I’ll even ask her whether a woman can initiate such assaults.

That would be, I think, kind of fun.

I can just imagine the circumlocutions of talking to Ma about such matters.

Will there be a next time like this morning?

I hope so.