The heaviness of the lid seems as if it is about to burst into ripeness
or rain upon the cornea. The soft bloated touch of it has the same pressure
and texture as the fat,
pin-cushiony arm of a baby.
Heavy as I was, Wystan used to carry me around everywhere. I
was his child. He only grew jealous of me later, when Marilyn began to love
me and pit me against him. She would look at him then take me from his arms,
hold me close to her face, kissing both my eyelids: first the left, then
the right, then the left again, the right again. I would begin to laugh,
tickled by her lips, her tongue.
So she says.
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