HOW I LOVE HER
她手掌上的皮肤绷得紧紧的，透明如纸。血液在纤细的血管网中跳动，清晰可见。指关节和关节显得脆弱，过大，暴露在外。随机的电流脉冲令手指不由自主地抽搐——她回应着这种抽搐，用手抚摸着蜜金色的头发，捋着裤腿，按摩着太阳穴。
她的手颤抖着放在桌子上，像一只紧张的动物，抬头看着她，而她则凝视着镜子里的自己。一束光从她左侧磨砂玻璃上子弹大小的洞里射进来，落在她的拇指关节上。她似乎感受到了这束光传递的热量，仿佛透过放大镜一般，她微微将手移到一边。现在，这束光的晶片正放在桌子的福米卡桌面上。它缓缓地划过桌面，逐渐延伸成椭圆形，最终融合成一个更大的、难以辨认的形状。
她仿佛在做白日梦，迷失在镜中的倒影中，迷失在她完美对称的脸庞中。外面凉风习习，右边的窗户开着。她赤裸着上身。她一定很冷，但她却毫无察觉。她的胸部随着呼吸的微妙节奏起伏，娇嫩的肌肤被冻得像橘子皮一样，琥珀色的乳头坚挺挺地挺立着。她眼中似乎噙满了泪水，但却没有流到脸颊上。她几乎不眨眼。一辆卡车在下面的街道上突然熄火，引发了一阵汽车警报声，在建筑物之间混乱地回荡，但她却毫无反应，仿佛生活在一个更高级的平行维度中，那里居住着少数神秘人士，拥有着与世隔绝的宁静。我不知道她是不是在冥想，用自己的脸庞施展催眠术。她是在为同学们在学校犯下的少女背叛行为策划一场冷酷的复仇，还是像我一样，只是被她身体深处脆弱的光芒——透过她的眼睛——催眠了？
我一坐就是几个小时，和她一样一动不动，与她心心相印，我的思绪投射到她的思绪中。
当太阳开始落山，城市高楼林立的轮廓映衬着紫色的天空时，她毫无预兆地从书桌上抓起象牙壳的梳子，仿佛它正试图逃跑或扑向她的喉咙，猛地用力地梳理着头发。她一把一把地拔出缠在刷毛里的金发，然后把绒毛甩开，仿佛它们正开始往她的手上爬。她从桌上拿起一根发带，把头发紧紧地束在头顶，把发带紧紧地绕在头顶，仿佛头发是某种邪恶的生物，必须不惜一切代价才能从她的脸上和身上消失。我隔着两栋楼的鸿沟大声喊着我爱她，但她听不见我的声音，因为她从桌上拿起剃须刀，在脸上划出上百道竖刀，嘴角在无声的狂喜中扭曲着。
（1994）
原文
The skin is stretched taut and translucent over the frame of her hand. The blood is visible as it beats through the delicate web of veins. The knuckles and joints seem vulnerable, over-large, exposed. Random pulses of electrical energy tick the fingers in involuntary jumps — spasms she responds to by moving her hand through her honey-blonde hair, smoothing out her pant leg, massaging her temples.
The hand sits quivering on the desk, like a tensed animal looking up at her as she stares at her reflection in the mirror. A pinpoint of light is thrown in through the bullet-sized hole in the frosted window to her left and lands on the joint of her thumb. She seems to feel the heat this conveys, as if it had passed through a magnifying glass, and she moves her hand slightly to one side. The wafer of light now rests on the formica surface of the desk. As it moves across the desk in a slow arc, it stretches into an oval and eventually blends out into a larger indeterminate shape.
She seems to be daydreaming, losing herself in her reflection in the mirror, in the perfect symmetry of her face. It’s cool out and the window to her right is open. She’s shirtless. She must be cold, but she shows no sign of it. Her breasts rise and fall with the subtle rhythm of her breathing, the delicate skin slightly textured like an orange peel from the cold, the amber nipples hard and uplifted. Her eyes seem to be flooded with tears, but nothing drains from them onto her cheeks. She rarely blinks. A truck backfires in the street below, setting off a chorus of car alarms bouncing chaotically between the buildings, but she gives no sign of response, as if she lived in a superior, parallel dimension inhabited by the esoteric few, in unspoiled hermetic calm. I wonder if she’s meditating, using her face as a mesmeric charm. Is she plotting dispassionate revenge for some girlish betrayal her friends committed at school, or simply hypnotized, as I am, by the light the vulnerable center of her body shines out through her eyes?
I sit for hours, as still as she is, connected to her, my thoughts projecting into hers.
As the sun begins to set behind the forest of city towers silhouetted against the purple sky, she grabs without warning the ivory-shelled brush from her desk as if it were trying to escape or leap up at her throat and she tugs it violently through her hair. She pulls out handfuls of blonde hair caught in the bristles and throws the fluff away from her as if it had begun to crawl up her hand. She takes a hairband from the desk, and bunching her hair tightly against her head she loops the elastic ring snug against the crown of her skull, as if the hair were some vile growth to be kept away from her face and body at all costs. I cry out to her that I love her across the chasm between our two buildings but she can’t hear me above the traffic as she takes the razor from the desk and slices her face in a hundred vertical gashes as her mouth contorts in silent paroxysms of ecstasy.
(1994)