“I had an abortion with my legs up against the wall in an apartment on West Eighty-eighth Street, with Demerol injected into my veins by a doctor whose consulting room was the corner of Fifty-eighth Street and Tenth Avenue.” She nods at me as I speak, as though these details are familiar, even expected. Then she says, “I had mine in the basement of a Greenwich Village nightclub, for ten dollars, with a doctor who half the time when you woke up you were holding his penis in your hand.” I look at her in admiration. She has matched me clause for clause, and raised the ante with each one. We both
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