I tried to explain. I tried to tell him my story. I tried to tell him about my beautiful older sister, who loved me so much, who told me secret things late at night, but my pants were off, and he was hovering above me, and all I could bring myself to say was, “I don’t know, my sister is dead,” and then I pressed my face into the pillow and cried some more. The guy was always very understanding, whoever he was. But in the morning, as he put on his jeans, I hated him for all that he had seen.
