Cellar Door.

"What would you do if I told you that I thought I was going crazy?"

She turned to ask him.

"Do you ask all your lovers things like this?"

"No. I've never had reason to."

He paused for a moment before answering. "That's a stupid question. It would be like if I asked you, 'what would you do if I told you I was going to die?'"

"I would ask when you were going to die."

"I'm going to die in forty minutes." He returned.

"I wouldn't believe you. I would keep your corpse in bed with me, and I'd read to you. I'd read you classics, and modern poetry, and grammar manuals, and biographies about Russian ballerinas and mass murders. I'd do that until you began to rot. And when you started to decay, I'd take parts of your body and pickle them like you do peppers so I could keep you forever."

"Would you now?"

"Most certainly. Now, what would you do if I told you that I thought I was going crazy?"

"I wouldn't believe you."