In the morning he rose with a half erection and quoted prose to his sleepy wife from the bathroom: “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita…” he said and finally could piss past the engourgement.
“You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style,” the sleepy wife said from under the pillow.
“Nabakov never killed anyone,” he said. “It’s just a book.”
“It’s the next line,” she said. “Humbert is talking to the jurry….it’s a confession.”
“Mea Culpa.”
“You sure is,” she said.
