Reading with the Queen of Coins
identification with (one) man’s loneliness
Every time he saw me, he called me “sweetheart” or “pretty.”
Hey pretty, he’d say as I climbed out of my car, my head all peach fuzz and acne and weird, weeping wounds at the back of neck where I hadn’t yet trained myself to stop picking at my skin’s bad reaction to the paclataxol. It didn’t seem like Jimmy was being facetious or teasing me. I never act…