It feels far away and then very near. An engagement across the table. The two are sparring. It’s brief, then the bubble pops. She looks embarrassed. Her own hesitant hand to her throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude with my personal idea of Eliot.” The room is intimate, small and almost cramped; we swell the table’s borders. She cut across us like a knife.
What does it mean to write about someone, even in a small way, to focus intensely on an action or a part of them, to take them into you and translate them into language? To give them a physical form, another one, doubling them with your words? Superimposing their image through the text.
Is it a kind of love? Is it obsession? It is none of those things but it is also not not those things. Is it spent or fed through writing?
An exchange is made. But what are its terms?