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What's with all this fucking 'not'?" She says, "Are you done?" Folds her arms and stares at me. "No. I wanna fuck or I wanna do something that can get me killed. Maybe drag racing. Winter mountain climbing in crash(widescreen edition) Alaska." "Go home and fuck your wife," she says. "You're a good writer. Stop acting like a baby." I crash(widescreen edition) pull down my sunglasses and crash(widescreen edition) flutter my eyelashes. "You sure you can resist me?" And truth is, I wouldn't know what to do if she said she'd go with me, but everything inside is hurting way too much for me to act like I don't care anymore. In my brain I've got a picture of her naked with a chapter of my book in her hand, glasses on, reading aloud while I'm over her making babies that will never come because I've been neutered by some Air Force surgeon with a sharp knife. "What's wrong with me?"
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