Men. Concrete idols. Surely they had blood inside, soft, vulnerable organs, even emotions. But Sarah saw only these staring, impenetrable creatures that seemed to function in geological time. They made their arbitrary hyperrational pronouncements as if they had just come down from a mountain, and they used a dangerous sharp-edged logic that could support any conclusion they wanted to make. And under all of this sanctimony an undying volcanic need to stick their penis into anything moving, shimmering, alive.
Sarah always felt this tremendous relief at the sight of a sleeping, flaccid man, but of course it was their hardness that compelled her to them. She wanted to beat her fists against that wall, squeeze the water from it. Emotion from a woman was so trivial, but emotion from a man was an accomplishment. The frustration exhausted her, hurt her, disillusioned her, but the challenge thrilled her like nothing else. I'm going to get that man to love me, not through any carefully thought out plan of action, but just with the power of my love. Love is going to do it all.
There sat Donald, coolly making his profound statements to the Old White Men. She hated him. She wanted him. She wanted to feel him explode.