Vanity. Ares

spoken so quickly, I doubted that she really had
thought about what he was proposing: that an
attractive lady, perhaps in her mid twenties, with
ample breasts—I did not see her full body, but
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
from her neck I could tell that she was not fat—
was not going to sleep with anyone whilst the
inmate was in Prison. This proposal seemed like
she was merely doing as Ronnie was; paying lip
service to things that really were completely not
the way they looked on the surface. No, I doubted
that she wanted to be there, and I doubted she
would wait six years to have relations again, but
there was a need to perhaps put on a show. At that
point I realised these shows were being recorded
all around: the guard was the lead in his own
Broadway show, as he swung his keys, stood a few
feet away from Ronnie and I. The inmates were in
the midst of their shows: sometimes playing the
aggrieved victim, and lashing out at a guard,
sometimes playing the drug dealer and so on. I
deemed this the elegant circle of the stupidity of
life: A cyclical circle; round edges, hard and soft as
both easy and difficult issues occur but a circle
nonetheless, as the same things had to occur, in
my eyes: the sun comes up, the sun comes down,
someone commits a crime, someone gets rich, a
girl lies to their imprisoned boyfriend in order to
help them act out a good life show — I realised all
this as I soon left Ronnie and the black man with
the girlfriend in the visiting area.
The notion that things were what they seem
was one in which that had met an untimely death
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