My ex-husband and I used to laugh about the prosaic literary tastes of straight, white men. In some other timeline, we’re reading Blake Butler and debating the merits of his sentence structure. In this one, however, I point men of a certain age toward my bookshelf, like a sexy grim reaper, guiding them toward the light between my legs. “I didn’t know Jon Stewart wrote a short story collection,” these men say, tenderly tipping the cover open to see the table of contents. I fold down the corner of my bedsheets.
