‘A decapitation raids my thoughts like a flash of lightening (the guillotine slashing right through the Queen’s throat with the beginnings of a rush of blood and flesh) and I try to hide my mind from Jessica, yes, and I cover my expressions with my hand for a moment and almost weep. The weeping would not be welcome; not now, not ever and I wonder if Jessica is on her period, periling that sanitary napkin with her own blood, with a yearning for unwanted desire, for the likes of me, for the lowliest of the low’:
