Playwright Portrait, Daniel Talbott, 2006,
Excerpt from Slipping
I loved him.
When we did.
When it felt right.
The few times.
It felt like kids. Like little kids.
Like eating dog food or stealing shit from a store.
I’d think about him.
I’d think about the ocean.
About the sun.
Changing behind the passenger door of his car.
Stuffing himself inside his wet suit.
His navel. His abs.
I’d think about sharks.
How deep it was.
I’d imagined cuts all on his body.
Him swimming out to sea…
His blood mixing with the salt and the tide.
I’d think of a shark falling in love with him the way I did.
His body. His blood.
I’d listen to it devour him.
His screams being sucked up into the surf and air.
Sinking together. To the bottom.
Into the darkness.