Dream 17 4 12
There are two of us who dress up in mediaeval costumes, a man and a
woman, each for different reasons: the man in order to spread himself
far and wide among women, and the woman – who is me, but not me – she
dresses up to match the man. When this proclivity to wear disguise is
uncovered we agree to fight it out in a mock duel. The man dresses up
in his finest mediaeval garb but woman choses to look ordinary.
Our weapons are real. Each bears a knife edged series of blades that
jut out and run parallel to one another – a line of short stubby knives
that can shred skin and cause deep wounds. The other weapon is more of
a bludgeon, dark, black and heavy.
I, the woman, do not enjoy this battle but the man gets into it with
pleasure. He is not so good a fighter as me and at one point when I
have my knife blade held against his stomach and it is merely a matter
of jabbing it in, I decide to call a halt, not so much a truce, as a
concession that he can win.
The game is over.