You keep doing that, she said, her eyes full of trapped, unspoken anger. You want to keep retelling my story. But it’s my story. It’s not yours. You can’t just make things up because you’d like it better if I had been braver, if I had killed the wolf myself instead, or fucked him in the forest, or started a lesbian collective with the hunter and my grandmother and the local midwives, and made sustainable jams and pickles for a modest profit. Because you’d like me better if I were a symbol of menstruation and sexual power. It happened to me, it’s the worst thing that ever happened to me. It’s
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