P.W. went and I tagged along—no longer mad with each other, just crazy. Nothing had been resolved; the mad phase had simply worn itself out. Still, he hadn’t told what happened the night of the cookout. When I asked he said “nothing,” as though it was something, but he had decided to be sweet and let it slide. So did I. I now know that Sibyl wouldn’t have said anything about Punk to P.W. because that would have tipped her hand. If she had, I could have called her a liar and had it out with her then, and P.W. and I might have hacked out our differences and gone on, and Robert Dale might have been freed from his gilded cage. Regardless, P.W. and I were never the same. We still had sex with the mindless constancy of love-bugs, but we didn’t make love anymore. We groped, got satisfied, showered and dressed at the trailer, then went to Sibyl’s. Intimate gatherings at her informal invitations. And although she was aware that I knew her other side, she seldom showed it.
What do You think about Two Shades Of Morning (2009)?
