"So, the gun?" "It's mine," she says with a hint of disappointment. "Why is it on the bed?" "That's where you wanted it." "What are you talking about?" "That's where you wanted it, Daniel." "Daniel? No one calls me Daniel." "Last night you said I could call you Daniel. You were drunk. I was drunk. I told you I was a cop." "Are you a cop?" "Maybe." "Are you?" He looks away from her as he takes the towel off, replacing it with his blue robe, which had been folded neatly, in a drawer by itself, the robe a gift from his brother the dancer. "And when we got back here you wanted to see the gun. You kept saying 'put the gun out, I want to see the gun while we're doing it.'" "Shit." "Daniel." "I said that?" "Daniel. Daniel. Daniel." "I said that?" "Did the gun remind you of being in the movies? I think I get it now." "I was out of it. I was drunk." "Daniel." "Don't call me that."

(Identity theory)