Meanwhile, a very young diram lies in bed with a clara. Because it is his first time with a clara, he immediately casts his doubts: what if she doesn’t love me; what will her mother’s reaction be when she finds out that I fuck her daughter; is there going to be enough lot space for my car; what of affirmative action babies.
With the sun in his mouth and clara’s white wrist across his chest, the diram undresses the clara to see if the rest of her looks like him. Upon setting his eyes on clara’s breasts, the diram breaks into a flurry of tears that float unnecessarily toward the mirror, and they settle briefly on the clara’s open eyes, and then smash against the windows where the sun turns them into crystals, and an elusive tear singes the flesh of the clara. It is magnificent.
Never had the clara seen a diram weep such perfectly shaped tears. And stirred by her inherent competitiveness, the clara weeps and puts the tears in her hands to try to shape them into perfection. Later that night, after flooding the apartment building with his tears, the diram walks onto the street where he is suddenly struck by a car, and just like that he loses the pleasure of being able to tell the world that claras look just like dirams.