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They think it’s a slur when they refer to me as a castrating bitch, but all it says to me is that they’ve finally realized I’m not someone to fuck with.
“Anyhow,” sighs Fields, who is now fondly remembering the days when you could just call a mouthy woman a witch and have her drowned,
“So who’s the lucky sixty-nine-year-old?” I roll my eyes. “Your dad.” He smirks. “My dad is dead.” “That,” I reply, “would explain why he’s been so pleasantly quiet in bed.”
Because repeatedly hooking up with a man you’ve talked about obsessively for two years straight…doesn’t sound like hate to me.”
“We can’t have sex the entire time,” I warn, as if I would ever complain if that was the case. He leans across the table and presses his lips to my forehead. “You can bring as many books as you want.”
