In the first of our conversations, you explained how different time was for you—how it’s an abstraction. Some hours glide past like birds, others are slow, plodding behemoths, stubborn and unwilling to leave.

What's a slut?" I ask him."A girl who puts out too easily.""Puts out what?" I imagine Greer putting out dinner and don't understand what Iwan wouldn't like about that."Puts out, you know..." His face, already beet red from our run, turns a darker scarlet. "Sex."I wonder where Greer puts the sex out.

Maybe your unspeakable defects give you power too?