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?
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…