Don’t you worry about getting hurt?
Yeah. I’ve been hurt. That’s part of the job. I’ve told you that I was kidnapped. I was kidnapped by a man who repeatedly raped me and tried to kill me. He told my family they would never find my body. That’s pretty hurtful, you know?
FEMME CRIMINELLE BY EB COTENORD 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 84
I spread pate on toast. We are in a booth in the back corner of a bistro on the north side of the city. It’s crowded and loud and the waiters have forgotten us us. “Don’t you worry about getting hurt?” he asks.
“What the fuck?” I spit out bits of toast and whipped duck liver. “Why do you think I’ve never been hurt?”
He blinks, confused. He is thinking I obviously hadn’t been hurt because why would I keep going back?
My face squeezes tight and I inhale in a way that makes me wonder if my lungs actually have a maximum capacity and if they do will I stop once I reach that point and will it matter if I explode in frustration all over this restaurant. And will it catch the waitstaff’s attent…