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MONKEY kill donkey

She was what a cad might call a hellcat in bed.

One afternoon we were drinking Coronas on the deck of a barbecue place near Charleston when a tall guy in a lot of linen introduced himself sheepishly. He was the editor of a local tourist rag. Were we local? Were we together? He’d love to put us in his Charleston’s Most Beautiful Couples issue.

It wasn’t till she left a note at the hotel desk – a trope miles beneath her – informing me she’d gone back to Miami, back to her CIA-operative husband, that I realized I’d fallen chemically in love with the Norwegian. I had 48 hours of shakes, nausea, cold sweats. In my hotel room I punched a mirror, knocked over a television, stomped my wristwatch. Only the tinkle of broken glass could comfort me.

Is there any such thing as subjectivity outside of ideology?