Lafayette notices Eddie standing at the door and smiles. "I bought this specially for you," Eddie says, obviously. Eddie doesn't drink wine. "I remember you said you Go for Merlot." Lafayette grins to himself. "I said I worked at Merlotte's, but whatever. Pour me some anyhow." Eddie swirls the wine, shows Lafayette the legs like he saw on TV. Eddie's life is from television: the way things are supposed to be, the salvation stories offer us. The hooker has a heart of gold, inner beauty overcomes all obstacles, people in love buy each other little gifts, bottles of wine, people in love sometimes mediate the heat of their passion by stretching it out, into dates every Monday, so that it doesn't burn them up. Eddie is a sad little, scary little case, though, because he's not just an average couch potato TV-watching loser, getting fatter and sadder as the lonely years go by: he's also hungry, and wild, and strong, and deadly. You might forget that, but rest assured Lafayette does not. Eddie's just like any other man.
Lafayette smells the wine and considers drinking it, as Eddie comes closer and closer to him, smelling at his skin, pulling at Lafayette's jeans. Poor old sad fucking Eddie, a god in human form, sitting on a couch as his brummagem lover spits the wine back in the glass. What would a vampire know about wine? He tries and tries, but he's just a dead body animated by desire; he bought the lies hook line and sinker. St. Valentine is the worst of our demons, because he tells us that our salvation depends on other people. On love, on the actions and the tokens of somebody else's appreciation. Everybody wants to be seen, to matter: St. Valentine of the Television tells us those two very different propositions are synonyms, and we sell him our souls without a thought.
"All right, baby. Eddie juice first. Then we play." Eddie sits back, sad -- but sad because the fantasy is gone, or because his hunger is deferred? Does he think one is the other? That's my read: all of this is an elaborate fetish, playing out the puppet games he thinks people play out, like on TV. And it pushes and rages against his natural desire, to fuck and rend and suck and bite and live. Again: same as you and me. But if we slept with everybody we were supposed to, nothing would ever get done. You have to prioritize! His salvation is humanity, and the grotesque approximation that Lafayette helps him talk himself into. He licks the vein on Eddie's arm, and it pops up. Tongue on skin. Eddie gasps, rolling inside it. Lafayette smiles and slips the needle in; that awful thing that always happens with syringes, when the blood backs out suddenly, in squirting thrust. "I always look forward to Monday nights. First Heroes, then... You." Lafayette looks seriously into his eyes: "Eddie. What fun is it being a vampire, if all you do is watch TV?"