Delilah (1999)

Teach me, he said - we were lying in bed - how to care. I nibbled the purse of his ear. What do you mean? Tell me more. He sat up and reached for his beer I can rip out the roar from the throat of a tiger, or gargle with fire or sleep one whole night in the Minotaur’s lair, or flay the bellowing fur from a bear, all for a dare. There’s nothing I fear. Put your hand here - he guided my fingers over the scar over his heart, a four-medal wound from the war - but I cannot be gentle, or loving, or tender. I have to be strong. What is the cure? He fucked me again until he was sore, then we both took a shower. Then he lay with his head on my lap for a darkening hour; his voice, for a change, a soft burr I could just about hear. And, yes, I was sure that he wanted to change, my warrior. I was there So when I felt him soften and sleep, when he started, as usual, to snore, I let him slip and slide and sprawl, handsome and huge, on the floor. And before I fetched and sharpened my scissors - snipping first at the black and biblical air - I fastened the chain to the door. That’s the how and the why and the where. Then with deliberate, passionate hands I cut every lock of his hair.