by Nick Patey

Bent threw the manuscript down wearily and lit another cigarette. He rubbed his eyes ruefully and stared vacantly at an abstract painting hanging patiently on the wall.

"Not another SOB story", he sighed inwardly.

He had an 'urgent' appointment with a young 'rational feminist' author at 2.00 pm, 'hell bent on castrating phallocentric Western European literature!'

Some people read to escape. Some people read to connect. Some people read to enter. Bent read to penetrate.

Inherently uninteresting in himself, through the words of others he re-invented himself literally. His identification with a 'fictional' character bordered on the pathological / the hysterical / the neurotic / the insane / disturbing / the psychotic?

To combat his lifelong insomnia, he had, from as far back as he could remember, resorted to reading as a type of sedative. He filled the paranoid silence(s) reading, never daring to commit himself to print. A word drunk mute, Bent recognised that words were at best token thoughts, untranslatable emotions. In short, he realised that words don't mean nothing, and that nothing was a word. Bent convicted thoughts to prison when he sentenced them to speech.

Although he personally found small talk and pregnant silences essentially empty and embarrassing rehearsals for speech, he employed them with the dexterity of a verbal acrobat.

Bent had a habit of carefully avoiding eye contact during attempted conversations. He was just as quick to contradict an idea or an opinion before it had emerged from an opening sentence. He was just as quick to avoid conflict by abrupt changes of tone, sudden (strategic?) smiles, and ironic smiles of concern.

Cynthia Cox wore her hair tied severely back - eyes gave nothing away - thought nothing of - There was a great deal (something?) about Cynthia's appearance that drew second thoughts. (gave Bent pause for curiosity?)