Incomunicación
Jerry talked and I listened. Gradually I learned more and
more about his life, while he, one can safely say, learned less and less
about mine. Due to my natural reticence, he had a free hand with my
personality. He could pretty much make me into whomever he wanted, and
it was soon painfully clear that when he looked at me what he mainly saw
was a cute animal, clownish and a little stupid, something like a very
small dog with buckteeth. He had no inkling of my true character, that I
was in fact grossly cynical, moderately vicious, and a melancholy
genius, or that I had read more books than he had. I love Jerry, but I
feared that what he loved in return was not me but a figment of his
imagination. I knew all about being in love with figments. And in my
heart I always knew, although I liked to pretend otherwise, that during
our evening together, when he would drink and talk, he was really just
talking to himself.

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