The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it. Things got hot and heavy in the car the next night, and he peeled off her skirt and top to reveal her underwear. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked.
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