Then came the day that I asked him, “What are you?” Would I receive any clearer an answer? “I never see you eating, Eliot, or working. Cleaning the house. Calling friends. Whatever you do when you’re not with me.”
He raised a fine eyebrow and one of his slim fingers reached to my mouth, running across my lips. We were lying on his bed again. Our bed. “I do what’s usual. Of course I eat, and other things. You just don’t see it. I only call you when I want you.”
I was restless. I tried to roll away from him. Always in the bed, always in his arms. “No one comes here, Eliot. Don’t you have visitors at all? Tradesmen? Friends?”
Other lovers? I wanted to say, but restrained my jealousy. It was irrelevant, really.
He shook his head, and I saw his expression twist with rare anger. “Sometimes
