I set about cleaning up the shattered glass from the test tube she had dropped. “Here,” she said. “I should be doing that.” “It’s all right,” I told her. “I’m used to it.” It was one of those made-up excuses that I generally despise, but how could I tell her the truth: that I was unwilling to share with anyone the picking up of the pieces. Was this a fleeting glimpse of being a woman? I wondered. I hoped it was … and also that it was not.
