Nude Men

percent like Sara. My mouth has shrunk, and my lips have become smooth and delicate, like rose petals. My nose is finer, my eyes are more clearly defined, and all my wrinkles are gone. My stubble is gone. I don’t need to shave. I have no more facial hair; no more beard.
    Now Sara is in me. Henrietta has imprisoned me. I have become her creature, her creation, her child. There is no escape, and I don’t want an escape anymore because I feel I am suddenly so vulnerable in the real world that I can function only in her warped reality. I must decide what to do. I need time.
    In any case, I can no longer go out in public looking this way. I can’t even let Laura see me. So I unhook the Mickey Mouse mask from our cabin wad and put it on my face. At first it fits comfortably, but after a while I feel hot and humid. That’s a small sacrifice, to conceal the black magic going on underneath the mask.
    I wear the Mickey Mouse mask: at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, and in between, because it’s only strange, whereas the transformation in my face is supernatural, worse than strange.
    When I eat, I lift the mask up slightly, just enough to uncover my mouth, so I can put food in it. I lower the mask when I chew.
    How do people react to the mask? They are amazed, amused, annoyed, impatient, condescending, contemptuous, and finally indifferent, ad of which is normal, healthy, fine with me, and much better than the covert glances I was getting yesterday when they could see the change in my face as plain as day.
    Under the mask, I think about what I should do. After much thinking, certain things become clear. For instance, I’m responsible for Sara’s death. If I hadn’t entered her life, she would probably still be alive. She would not have crossed the street at the particular instant when that yellow car was there to hit her. Now I owe Henrietta my life. We are bound to each other by our unhappiness. I won’t feel at peace until I do the right thing. I belong with her, I belong to her; I must return.
    And when I return I will tell her the truth about Sara, about her fifty percent chance of recovery. I realize I will be contemptible not to spare her the agony of knowing how tragic Sara’s accident really was, but I can no longer bear the pain all by myself. If we are to have a close relationship, we should both know the truth. I will then comfort her and stay with her always.
    I must get rid of Laura so that I am free to go back to Henrietta. I try to think of how to accomplish this. Behind the mask, I am plotting. I finally make my decision. I will drown her.
    I will do it now, right now. It’s a nice afternoon. I will take her for a walk—we’re in port today—and I will drown her. I ask her if she’d like to go for a walk; she acts delighted. Before we leave, I hand her a pen and a piece of paper.
    “Take these,” I say, “and write your will the way you want it: the clapper at your grave forever, if that’s still what you want.” Because after ad, I think she should be allowed to write her will before she drowns. It’s just common courtesy.
    She looks at me with surprise and says, “Why now?”
    “Because it has to be written and signed by you. I don’t think they’d believe me if I just told them, without your signature.”
    “But why now?”
    “Because you were right. It’s best not to wait,” I ted her through the mask. “You’ll feel more at peace if you get it off your chest. You’ll be more relaxed, our promenade will be more carefree.”
    So she writes whatever she wants on the piece of paper and hands it to me. It says: “I want my fortune to be spent on everything that was written in the National Enquirer: clapper at my grave forever or until money runs out, shifts allowed, etc.” Her signature is at the bottom.
    I fold the paper, tuck it in my pocket, and we go on our walk. I must find a place to drown her. A place with lots of people. Some sort of event. An event that attracts large crowds. A concert would be perfect.
    Eventually we come upon an outdoor circus. That will do. It’s very crowded. The people are standing, watching, and clapping at the show. I bring Laura to the edge of the clapping crowd, and I watch her sink, becoming engulfed in the sea of clap ter. She looks at me with confusion, but the people soon close in on her. She tries to hang on to me, to my clothes, but I don’t help her. The crowd is clapping at the circus, not at her. She sinks into a sea of anonymous