“You know, Tennessee,” she drawled, “this ‘boy,’ as you call him, happens to be the nephew of Joan Didion, whom I always thought you were rather fond of.” Tennessee’s hand snapped away from my crotch as if he’d been bitten by an asp. Embarrassment drained his complexion, and he pushed away a glass of vodka on ice in self-revulsion. After composing himself, he looked me directly in the eye. “Young man,” he began, “though I don’t know your aunt well, I adore her words and deeply apologize for my disgraceful behavior. Won’t you please sit with us.” He grabbed an empty high-back chair and told
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