Addicted to love.
Addicted to one woman, to HER love, ‘til death, in death.
That kind of love can actually spend time apart.
It can know others, know She is loved by others, made love to by others.
Yet It lessons not one iota, staying to its core…White Hot Heat.
He had faults, maybe, I mean, tied up with scarves and lightly whipped…? Whoopdeedo…sigh…
If it had been a problem, He would have changed…for Her, He would.
He didn’t have a chance to change.
She didn’t have a chance to need to ask.
She would have needed to ask…eventually…Roman would NEVER have changed…not for anyone…not even for Her.
Jay would…and She knew it.
Every woman He slept with, He saw and felt Her.
At breakfast, He looked to the chair across from Him and saw Her sitting in it, those big, itchy, scratchy 60s curlers in her hair, and She was utterly beautiful, every day She was…as He looked to that chair.
Women, starlets, he saw on sets as he did his “cut and glam” thing, were Sharon…every one of them.
And He would have NEVER admitted to the number of times He parked outside the gate at 10050, headlights off, sitting, waiting, watching, as He did have some pride left, but not much, not when it came to Her.
He was addicted.
He would wait.
He had time…all the time in the world…He thought.
He could have loved Paul Richard, after all, Paul would be a part of Her too.
It was okay. It all was okay. He thought.
They thought wrong…
But in the end, Jay and Sharon and Paul Richard were together, so was anything really THAT wrong…after all?
People have murdered for less…