His Partners

3

Looking back upon my notes – and my emotions – I realise I was perhaps unfair on the artist. As I sit in quiet reflection in the same little coffee shop I visited before I went to the gallery, I wonder if it was I who was in the wrong. After all, I did not make it clear I was writing about someone else, that I was writing about the Liar, not the artist. And perhaps I should have. Though, even now, I do not hesitate to excuse myself from the guilt of the lie, because the Liar made it abundantly clear – as did my experience earlier – that, should I have revealed my true writing intentions, the artist would have been likely reluctant to answer anything I wanted him to. I tap my nail on the table as I wait for my cup of tea to cool.

By the first sip of the tea, I have decided to put the incident behind me. I have got what I wanted from Carrellés, garnered some photographs I will hardly need, and stumbled across information that fits relatively closely to what the Liar spoke of. I am glad I have come to see Carrellés, regardless of the hassle – having both sides of a monogamous relationship is valuable when writing about it. The Liar said his part, though has yet spoken about none of his relationships in depth, and Carrellés has filled in the blanks for his own relationship with the masked man. The heiress will be hard to find, though I do not doubt it possible. However, as I have the name of the Liar's last prize, he will be my next target.

The hermaphrodite goes by the name of Lull. I find this interesting already. Firstly, hermaphrodites are not at all common in everyday life, so I am slightly exited to meet him because of this fact. Secondly, his name is intriguing to me. I do not believe I will ask about it, nor will I ask about his sex, because, while interesting, it is knowledge I would not think the layman needs to read about. Prying eyes would be interested, but I hope the more mature reader will be driven to continue by the story itself.

That being said, context about Lull is fair play to collect.

I fire up my notebook laptop, newly inspired to find my next interviewee. I have no idea where to start with this; all I have is a – supposedly - first name, a sex and a clue that this person has a facial tattoo. Hardly much to search with. Still, I try to make good my search, despite not finding too much. Though this is no surprise – I'd not expect to find any one person immediately. Though I have found something that looks to be promising. By the power of social media, location searching and cross-referencing, I have found a public figure's Twitter post that seems to talk about "[someone's] hermaphrodite". It reads as follows:

"Apparently, the nurse who did my hermaphrodite's smear test wasn't aware he had balls too."

Crude humour, but humour nevertheless. Two things about this particular post make me optimistic; the fact the sent-from location is apparently within this county, and the fact that, in this person's post, they refer to "their hermaphrodite" with male pronouns. Surely it would be against probability to have two male-pronoun-preferring hermaphrodites in the same county? Or perhaps not, I have not the knowledge of the statistics. However, this seems like a worthwhile place to start.

Useful, too, that this Twitter personality is public. With a bit of a following too, they seem to post little quips and amusing thoughts quite regularly. However, thrown in, there are some obvious moans and gripes which, from this side of the screen, are somewhat entertaining too. However, the exact location is, of course, not made public. I sit back, raising my teacup to my lips again, mulling over a suitable way of discovering this hermaphrodite's location. I do not want to pin my hopes on it being Lull, but I am optimistic.

I stare at the ceiling as sleep evades me. Though I am lying still, eyes closed, it is loath to embrace me. And, the most frustrating part of the whole ordeal is that I cannot think of a reason why this would be the case. I simply lie, on my left side, yet fail to fall asleep. It is not that I am in some sort of purgatory where comfort is impossible to find, I am comfortable indeed, something at the back of my mind is simply keeping me active. I seek it out, still with my eyes closed to the darkness. Could it be I am thinking of the Liar, a marked deluder and yet so honest with his words? Or perhaps my mind is kept buzzing by the continual treadmill that was the artist's never-ending speech? Or even the hermaphrodite, whose acquaintance I have yet to make? Perhaps this last one, for I have only heard of his countenance through the mouth of another.