Rather than cutting off my head, she filled it with a cultural education of sorts. We haunted foreign film festivals, viewed the works of Bresson ("Le...Filou"), Carné, Eisenstein, Buñuel, Fritz Lang. She assigned me books to read, and we discussed Goethe, Stendhal, and Balzac. We talked far into the night, and sometimes fell asleep in each other's arms, too fatigued to make love.And there were the long walks in Central Park, the picnics on the lawn by the statue of Sigismund Wasa,. It took a few moments before the dull pain settled in. There was a persistent ache, somewhere deep inside my crotch. The memories of what happened came flashing back, and I frantically turned around only to find myself all alone in the sleeping bag. The tent was empty. My father was nowhere to be seen.It was a relief. I wasn’t ready to face him. Hell, I had yet to really comprehend what even happened. With a steadily quickening heartbeat, I reached down to unfold the sleeping bag. Maybe it had. More

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