I had to admit, though, that I
couldn’t open my paper (okay, Tommy’s paper) without reading a description of
some dude’s secret sexually aggressive life.
There were a lot, even if you thought that some of them weren’t all
true. Most of them involved guys a lot
more assuming than my buddy Perry, too. “Maybe he couldn’t help it,” Mrs. Baxter offered. “Their hormones can be a lot
closer to the surface than ours.” For a moment, I was enraged. Then I was embarrassed, thinking about how
gratified my high-school self would be on the undamaged side of “ours.”
“With all due respect, I think
that’s a myth, Mrs. Baxter.”
She looked at me as if to say “Have
it your way,” but she didn’t say anything else.
Somehow, though, I doubted that she’d give me space on the Sanity Bench
again, and, stranger as she was, that gave me a pang. On the other hand, at least I wouldn’t be
tossing and turning in a strange bed that night over the gap between my stated
beliefs and the things I was willing to talk about in public. That was a step
in the right direction.
Just a taste from my as-yet-untitled False Confession story(partially based on a real incident, in which a neighbor was a witness. ) Thought about calling it "Saturday, In The Park" because I set it on July 4, but the band Chicago isn't very noir, is it? Not that my stories usually are, either, even though I've tried.
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