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Authors: Paige Johnson
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current events. Of course, I want all the hindrances of adulthood to disappear when I walk through the threshold of your bedroom, so we can lie together—thoughtlessly—and you can pretend to have nightmares so I’ll hold you closer. I want to continue to hold you, mold you, educate and help you, Ellie Anne.
But for this to happen, there must be no suspicion. There must be no Jacob Riis to unravel us like a taped infection.
So I cannot tell my wife I wish to singe our way of life for a girl . So I cannot tell my wife I love the last person I should. If I did, my son would suffer. If I did, my wife could retaliate with a lawyer. The press and my constituency surely would.
All the constructs of clocks and common decency and civilization are working against us, dear.
I’m going to make you a one-time offer, a largely unromantic and potentially catastrophic offer: With the death of your immediate family and as that which is left is of degenerate stock, I am willing to take any legal or customary proceedings to provide you all the necessary (and admittedly luxurious) fruits and labors of a guardian. I am willing to be that “long-term moderator” who keeps you out of trouble and kisses your wounds when you’re ill.
I could literally replace your father, Ellie Anne. I could adopt you and confidentially be your Hearten or what-have-you, if you’d still desire it. And, perhaps, when you and my son are emotionally mature enough, I can consider breaking off from my wife and starting a life with you, clandestinely clean. But not now, not yet. You must answer the question first:
Are you going to let me adopt you and drop your unworkable, childish demands? Or are you going to continue to taunt me with perfume and a question too big to fit in your mouth?
Whatever your first answer is, make it your last answer. I will not condone self-conscious tricksters, so if you hesitate, groaning your words, or if you gasp in anything other than surprise, I cannot take you as a lover. I will not be your second choice thriving on sick hope.
Remember when you were thirteen and I taught you about simple economics? I recall the tendrils of pineapple escaping through your light breath and little teeth, that you’d just gotten an unfortunate haircut; it made your tresses fizzle out like copper wire and had the texture of cotton candy. Your weight leant between the niches of my arms as you obnoxiously gnawed on a gum-ball, minutely invested in my lesson. If you haven’t learned already, this is basic marginal analysis.
The marginal cost of me giving up my job, my family, and my reputation outweighs the marginal benefit of me chasing after you in hopes you’ll never grow up, never grow so bored of me you’ll experience other lovers and trials.
So, in terms of opportunity cost, it is not best that I desert my family because I can’t be sure you’re irrevocably committed to me. Let me know. Tell me, truthfully.
I tell you this in hopes you’ll take a step back and use the logical, discriminating part of your brain; rather than entertain grandiose, gleaming spider webs: the unnatural beauty of human nature, the irrational works of the feverish like Nabokov.
Momentarily, your head is filled with very lush lucid dreams. You paint lovely pictures, Ellie Anne. But they’re not living possibilities. They’re not real-life. I can give you an extraordinary opportunity and structure; not a fast-paced fairy tale.
Be my lover and let delusions of grandeur go or be my responsibility and let your heart hemorrhage no more.
Consider reality. Consider yourself. Consider me as I am.
Affectionately,
Harold
Introducing Ellie Anne
Origin
3/9
My daddy is dead. But it’s okay. I’m getting a new one and he’d tell me to be strong . . . I breathe
But for this to happen, there must be no suspicion. There must be no Jacob Riis to unravel us like a taped infection.
So I cannot tell my wife I wish to singe our way of life for a girl . So I cannot tell my wife I love the last person I should. If I did, my son would suffer. If I did, my wife could retaliate with a lawyer. The press and my constituency surely would.
All the constructs of clocks and common decency and civilization are working against us, dear.
I’m going to make you a one-time offer, a largely unromantic and potentially catastrophic offer: With the death of your immediate family and as that which is left is of degenerate stock, I am willing to take any legal or customary proceedings to provide you all the necessary (and admittedly luxurious) fruits and labors of a guardian. I am willing to be that “long-term moderator” who keeps you out of trouble and kisses your wounds when you’re ill.
I could literally replace your father, Ellie Anne. I could adopt you and confidentially be your Hearten or what-have-you, if you’d still desire it. And, perhaps, when you and my son are emotionally mature enough, I can consider breaking off from my wife and starting a life with you, clandestinely clean. But not now, not yet. You must answer the question first:
Are you going to let me adopt you and drop your unworkable, childish demands? Or are you going to continue to taunt me with perfume and a question too big to fit in your mouth?
Whatever your first answer is, make it your last answer. I will not condone self-conscious tricksters, so if you hesitate, groaning your words, or if you gasp in anything other than surprise, I cannot take you as a lover. I will not be your second choice thriving on sick hope.
Remember when you were thirteen and I taught you about simple economics? I recall the tendrils of pineapple escaping through your light breath and little teeth, that you’d just gotten an unfortunate haircut; it made your tresses fizzle out like copper wire and had the texture of cotton candy. Your weight leant between the niches of my arms as you obnoxiously gnawed on a gum-ball, minutely invested in my lesson. If you haven’t learned already, this is basic marginal analysis.
The marginal cost of me giving up my job, my family, and my reputation outweighs the marginal benefit of me chasing after you in hopes you’ll never grow up, never grow so bored of me you’ll experience other lovers and trials.
So, in terms of opportunity cost, it is not best that I desert my family because I can’t be sure you’re irrevocably committed to me. Let me know. Tell me, truthfully.
I tell you this in hopes you’ll take a step back and use the logical, discriminating part of your brain; rather than entertain grandiose, gleaming spider webs: the unnatural beauty of human nature, the irrational works of the feverish like Nabokov.
Momentarily, your head is filled with very lush lucid dreams. You paint lovely pictures, Ellie Anne. But they’re not living possibilities. They’re not real-life. I can give you an extraordinary opportunity and structure; not a fast-paced fairy tale.
Be my lover and let delusions of grandeur go or be my responsibility and let your heart hemorrhage no more.
Consider reality. Consider yourself. Consider me as I am.
Affectionately,
Harold
Introducing Ellie Anne
Origin
3/9
My daddy is dead. But it’s okay. I’m getting a new one and he’d tell me to be strong . . . I breathe
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