Yes, I’m the grandson of James Joyce and while I haven’t flaunted any literary pretentions over the past sixty-six years of my life, I have of late dabbled in prose as evidenced by this “blog”. For the most part, I have been too busy at study and then at work for the Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development and then after retirement I was just as busy overseeing legal matters regarding my grandfather’s estate. I was also entangled in lawsuits over misuses of my grandfather’s works. I also took someone to court for pretending to be me on a blog. In short, I had little time for the pursuit of prose. Over the past year, however, I’ve decided to try my hand at literature. So here is my story for today, a prose-poem written in honor of Samuel Beckett, whose “Endgame” premiered on this very day in London in 1957.
   “Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.”

He Said, She Said

    “Will you love me forever?” she asked with her eyes rounded in hope. “I’ve never loved you once,” he said with a slender scratch of his bum. “But did you not love me that time in the zoo in the middle of the night on the bench beneath the monkeys?” she said with words that climbed a mountain of memories of fucking in strange places. “Oh yes. That was not love. That was a burst of excitement and joy. That was wonderful. That was not love,” he said and he kissed the end of his cigarette as a test before he lit and inhaled. “But what about that time you stole keys off a drunk circus carny and we made love on the graviton that spun us around and around. Our bodies were stuck to each other and we could feel all of our organs pressed to the back or front of our bodies. There was nothing left but love to keep us from vomiting. You said that. You said that as you crawled into a 69 position,” she said as if she’d caught him in a check-mate of emotions. “I can’t be held accountable for what my dizzy brains produced. Pardon my harshness, but what came out of my mouth was akin to a vomit,” he said and wondered if he was quoting anyone famous. “So will you love me forever?” she asked with her face rounded in hope. “I’ve forgotten your name,” he said and added, “I’ve forgotten where we met, how we met and with whom we met. I’ve forgotten how my heart felt like a little bird the first time I laid eyes on you. An entire season dawned in a second. I forget how you dropped the olive into the glass of red wine and then overturned the wine onto the white tablecloth. I forget how your mirth climbed with each gaffe until you were almost off your chair with laughter. I forget our 32 encounters. Our pet names for one another. Our rituals of touching each other in the morning, afternoon and night,” he said and briefly remembered something.
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