Companionship

Love, says W., reclining on his bed in the hotel room, your favourite topic. Why are you so afraid of love? Why?

How many nights have passed like this, W. drunk and I half drunk, and both of us looking for a way to fill the empty hours until dawn? Occasionally W. will speak of his love for Sal – this is always moving – but mostly he likes to probe me with questions, one after another.

What do you think love is?; What is love, for you?; Have you ever loved anyone?; What do you consider love to be?; Do you think you'll ever be capable of love?; What is it, do you think, that prevents you from loving anyone?

For his part, W. is eminently capable of love, and happy to say so. As for me, W. says, I remain eminently incapable of love. You only love yourself, he says.

Your weakness is that you're too susceptible to beauty. It's your fatal flaw. It's not about looks, says W. Companionship. That's what you need. If anyone needs a woman, it's you.

Companionship, says W., is very important. It's the heart of a relationship. You have to get on. Sal and I get on, he says. If you're working class, like us, says W., you show your affection by verbal abuse. That's why I abuse you – verbally, I mean. It's a sign of love.