Whatís the matter? he said.
I donít know, I said.
We still have ... he said. But he didnít go on to say what we still had. It occurred to me that he shouldnít be saying _we, since nothing that I knew of had been taken away from him.
We still have each other, I said. It was true. Then why did I sound, even to myself, so indifferent?
He kissed me then, as if now Iíd said that, things could get back to normal. But something had shifted, some balance. I felt shrunken, so that when he puts his arms around me, gathering me up, I was small as a doll. I felt love going forward without me.
He doesnít mind this, I thought. He doesnít mind it at all. Maybe he even likes it. We are not each otherís, anymore. Instead, I am his. (p. 182)
Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.
Donít let the bastards get you down. (p. 292)
Margaret Atwood: The Handmaidís Tale.