He asks me for a list of chick writers, then, women who are as great as Hemingway. I am so blind and mad and fuzzy. His hand is on my leg and I want it to stay there and also I want to punch him and also I want him to be different from who he is and also I want me to be different from who I am, someone who could have a list ready in her angry head but also someone who could get up and leave and not be afraid that this hand on my leg might be the last one ever so just ride it out, okay, whatever this is just ride it out.