In the morning we put on our sharp blue suits and
go to hear the delegates speak through broken teeth.
These are the women whose names the press must be
cautioned not to mention, the ones who smuggle food
across warring borders, drive defiant crosses into the
burning ground. We give them our attention, we
write them checks. And yet we are not ashamed to
live here in our bounty. It is ours. It is what we have.

In the evening, you put on your black, your gold, and
go out to the bondage club. Little thing that you are, I
understand the need to slap someone around. The need
for photographs and scars. And you say these are the nicest
people you've ever met: they're just in pain (oh yes, a little
joke: I refer to the physical as well as the psychic). Little
thing that you are, come home when you have had enough.
I will apply the universal remedy. Perhaps serve tea.

And when the next day comes around, I'll be the bad
girl. You go to work, I'll hit the bars. Let's put it this
way: peace is impossible, violence endemic, guilt the
natural foundation of our lives. Our lives. Oh, the years
I spent researching magical solutions! Page 309: In
the moonlight, in a bloody dance. We could try that,
too. It won't work, but it might be our kind of fun.

Subscriber Login

User Name

Password

Subscribe Now!

The only way to read this article and the full contents of each week's issue of The Nation online is by subscribing to the magazine. Subscribe now and read this article -- and every article published since for the past five years -- right now.

There's no obligation -- try The Nation for four weeks free.

• Get The Nation at home (and online!) for 75 cents a week!
• If you like this article, consider making a donation to The Nation.