He Had the Secret of Her

Whenever he hit the bullseye of her heart like that, she’d give a little frown but think about what he had said. He seemed to know her better than she knew herself. That she was so transparent to him unnervered her. How could he continue to like her when he made her motives seem shallow and selfish. She was afraid that he would uncover some truth, perhaps something she didn’t know herself, and it would turn him against her. But the more he pointed out her faults the more she wanted him to like her in spite of them. If he could explain why she did the things she did, he must understand her. And if he understood her, well, isn’t that the same as forgiveness?

He was in her head. He had penetrated her defenses because he told her each secret of herself that he uncovered. These secrets were not treasures in themselves. Secrets were the passwords to their intimacy; they unlocked the doors in the realm of words. The only thing behind each door was another door, another secret.

She believed that he had the secret of her. And she did not want to lose him before he could tell her what it was.

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The surface and beneath the surface