“How old was she?” “When she had you? I cannot say for sure. Around twenty.” That is the problem. She was younger than I am now. Pregnant with the baby of a Were cult leader whose restraint was worthy of Caligula’s orgies. Lost girl to lost girl, I cannot help wondering whether she felt alone. Overwhelmed. Scared. Proud, I’m sure Irene would say, but… Am I just projecting? Because we have the same fucking cheekbones?
