That motherfucker would tell me I was beautiful every day—with sincerity, and eye contact, and a gentle caress of my cheek with his giant callous man hands. He would buy me big, ostentatious bouquets of flowers—for no reason. He would hold my hand—in public. He’d paint my toenails while we watched Sex and the City. And whenever Mr. and Mrs. Oppenheimer were out of town, Hans would drag a TV into their
