“So?” Johnny replied, still with his back to me. “Having a vagina doesn’t automatically tie you to a cooker—or a fucking hoover.” He shook his head. “Christ, if I even thought about pulling that sexist shite on my ma, she’d cut my balls off.” “That’s a healthy way to approach life,” I told him, thrilled by his words. “That’s the only way to approach life,” he corrected. “We’re in the twenty-first century,” he added. “Not the eighteen hundreds.”
