I don’t leave the gallery and go home like my mom told me to, because why not be the girl with a splotchy face, oversized T-shirt, holey pants, and crazed hair who crouches down behind a mail box and watches for the man she loves to walk out of the coffee shop? Who doesn’t want to be that girl? She’s popular. She’s in with the hip crowd. She is by no means desperate or crazy, or nasty to poor Mrs. Braverman, who asked for privacy when putting her mail in the box. “It’s mail for fuck’s sake,” I yelled, taking the mail from her and shoving it down the hole in one giant swoop. “It’s not like I’m
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