Hank Riley reached out to touch me again, as if his hands could offer anything palliative. I didn’t want to be touched and I shrugged him off. He looked wounded, like all men did when their touch was rejected. It was okay for me to be upset, so long as he could control it. My emotions weren’t something to listen to or empathize with, but something to solve. Like a broken toilet in the middle of the night.
