Stream [third passing]

Dialogue: literary work consisting of a conversation between two or more persons. From the Greek, dialogos, then the Latin dialogus and finally to the French Dialoge.  A word so perfect in its construction that nigh on three thousand years of language bastardisation cannot alter it.

Duologue: "a conversation between two persons".

Which would I prefer.  The intellectual in me loves the fact that we are being reckless with our thoughts and feelings now. The world and his wife and her husband could be part of our exchange. A literary work created by two minds interacting. It's post-modern, it's exciting; we could package it and sell it. But then I worry that she is holding back, choosing her words more carefully, applying selective topiary to the sprouting thoughts that blossom from her mind.  Is she being more open or less, applying different standards to this new medium.  The intellectual is over-ridden.  I want it to be literary, to be high brow.  I also desire her to be exclusively mine. I want her thoughts, her attention. So here is my dilemma - in duologue the conversation will only ever revolve around me and her and us.  The dialogue allows so much more - I may observe the varying facets of her personality as she wishes to be portrayed to the whole world and not just to me.

To watch her flirt would be very much the same.  I could watch her talents at work, employing the various smiles at will like an master painter selecting the correct shade of red to crest that petal.  I could observe her at her sexiest, holding a little back but giving a way at the same time.  Engaging, jousting, touching - opening her wit and her charm and her raw sexual musk.  I would be insanely jealous of every second that the bright beam of her attention was not illuminating me, but that would have nothing to do with the flirting, or the allure.  She could be walking a pensioner to the 4th of July parade and I would feel the same; talking to the other hockey moms across the fence;  dancing a swing-dance I could never hope to co-ordinate. It is her attention I crave and I cannot hold that eternally.  Knowing that she will not shine upon me, the focus of her attention is irrelevant, I need not know or care, for in the important moments between sunset and sunrise, between kissing and breathing, between songs and between sonnets and between the sheets, then she would be mine and I would be hers.

Indeed, the opposite is true: to know that for all that flirting, for all that focus she would bring to bear upon her victim was in vain, that in the end her mind, and her body, and her cunt were all mine, branded and chained with a single link: that would be a powerful aphrodisiac indeed.

Eat.

So ends the third.