From a file in the "Sterling Fassbinder" folder...
TRUE and I listened to “Little”, by Vic Chesnutt. She was lying across the couch—sick--but nearly recovered from a nasty summer cold. I was supposed to be taking care of her. Meanwhile my stomach ache got worse by the second. I'm always harboring these crazy longings to have a chilled-out time with just the two of us, but when it finally happens I can't pull it together.
She sang along to the music, sweetly mimicking Vic’s loopy Georgia drawl.
“’A cup a day to curb visibility…’”
She closed her eyes and shuddered.
“Tea time,” I announced, hating the shrill note in my voice.
I pushed off from Fitz’s prized easy chair and headed to the antiseptic kitchen. He was still in Chicago, picking up sad and skinny indie rockers. “Can’t get enough of those assymmetrical bangs,” he liked to say.
TRUE’s hand suddenly shot out and grabbed my wrist. I jumped and stopped in my tracks.
I looked deep into her blue eyes. For once they weren’t glassy.
“What is it?”
“Have I taken it too far?”
I peered down at her hand. Her grip was tight.
“How do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Tell me.”
I didn't know what she meant, but I liked the conspiratorial tone she was using. It made me feel a part of something.
“I think it’s art for art’s sake.”
“Sure, why not?”
“Oh, come on!”
“You only fuck around like you know what I’m on about.”
“That’s right. What are you on about?”
“You haven’t got a clue, do you?’
“I might have half a clue.”
“Oh, yeah?” she shook my hand free. Her eyelids hung low.
“Maybe you do, what the fuck.”
“You’ve got to rest. I’m going to make the tea.”
“Fine, fine,” she arched her back and collapsed with a sigh against the pillow. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her so tired.
“Just tell me one thing…”
“Yes?” I said.
“Are we still recording?”