Dislikes glutinous rice.
Enjoys cold pizza, right out of greasy box.
Ex-smoker. Tastes like youth when kissed.
Everything unwinds, I am the madwoman Henry sees in his nightmares. I scream and terrorise my neighbours, I broke the teacups and I am mad. Sundays are the worst: I feel the uncontrollable need to be near Henry, with him like a petulant child who won't shut up. My toes cringe from shame and I cannot help but feel exhausted, exhausted to see what power Henry wills over me and my fight against his. I win his respect but he ridicules me, taunts me with his presence and when he leaves I feel defeated with an absence that leaves a gaping hole, not knowing what madness is like. Loving Henry is tedious and enriching, so much hate and so much passion- Janice tells me it's a privilege. But is it a privilege in loving in between silences that tortures me at leisure?
Perhaps I seek too much, but there is need to hear Henry tell me: Anne, you have a most beautiful mind! then I am satisfied, pleased that he sees me the way I want to. Tomorrow I will see him, face him, but I must not mention my terrible need for him when he leaves. He will interpret this as desperation. No woman should be such, unless -- (torn, illegible writing)