“What’s wrong with the men?” Clare said. She stood on the living room carpet, arms crossed over her chest and jaw clenched. I found that in a past life she might have been a teacher, an eccentric woman who at first made you feel weird but in the end changed your life. I don’t answer. I was sitting on the plush velvet chair we brought home from the corner of Fifth and Eighteenth Streets. My hand is clamped between my thighs. “Really,” she said. “I want to know. Do you know? What do they have in mind? What they want? I shrug. That was not a question I could answer, though she seemed to think I could. I was probably the dumbest student in her class, unable to answer even the easiest questions she posed to me.
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