Douglas Glover (born 14 November 1948)
from La Corriveau (The Diminished)
I WAKE UP NEXT MORNING in my rented tourist flat on rue des Ramparts with really terrible headache and a strange dead man in bed next to me.
First, let me tell you that nothing like this has ever happened to me before.
In bed with a dead man – never.
Often they may have seemed dead. You know – limp, moribund, unimaginative, sleepy or just drunk to the point of oblivion. But until now I have avoided actual morbidity in my lovers.
I resist an initial impulse to interpret his sudden and surprising fatality as an implicit critique of our lovemaking the night before.
To tell the truth I don’t remember our lovemaking, but the man and I are naked and the sheets are in wild disarray and I am a bit sore here and there, which leads me to draw certain embarrassing conclusions.
Embarrassing because I don’t remember any of this and especially his name or anything else about him.
He is clearly dead and naked. And a man. Beyond this I know nothing (although with his sinewy slimness, protuberant eyes and thick lips, he bears a strong resemblance to Mick Jagger, the man of my dreams).
To tell the truth, it makes me a little panicky being in bed with a corpse (however handsome) and feeling that I might be held responsible for him at some point, when in all honesty I can’t say that I have ever seen him before in my life, though our having had intimate relations before, and quite possibly after, his demise seems indubitable. . . .
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