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“Let me see that,” she said, grabbing the letter. “‘I believe my dedication to excellence and strong interpersonal skills make me a prime candidate for this position.’ Please—Marcus Wainwright wouldn’t know strong interpersonal skills if they fucked him in the ass. I can’t believe these frat guys are going to run the world.” She handed the letter back to me, then rested her head on the desk.
I’d imagined it as austere, holy, the kind of place my mother always said she wanted, where she could go for peace and quiet, to hear herself think. The kind of retreat I sensed even then belonged only to men.
as small and unimportant as I mostly felt, the egotism of youth hadn’t left me, and I placed myself firmly and squarely at the center of the universe.
From the expression on his face, I could tell I’d hurt him in some soft, secret place, the same way he had hurt me. But it didn’t give me pleasure. All I felt was sad, as if this was all life was, an endless, interlocking chain of hurting people and being hurt in return.
What made a girl a woman? Through what mechanism did we pass from one state to another?
