Sure, those piercing blue eyes and the tan muscles I could mount, all I’d need was his shoulder to ride on. But that blood. Beautifully splattered. Splayed. Blood like a Pollock painting. I wasn’t supposed to get off on blood and violence. Yet, there I was, off. 

Orestes is still licking the complex wounds of his original loss. We lose our childhoods again and again until we don’t. Some people never get to the don’t. Beer bottle after beer bottle to his mouth worsens his already depressive position.