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234 pages, Kindle Edition
First published February 4, 2025
I had to believe we'd meet again, that Dino would come home to me. If not, I'd never leave my bed. I'd fall down a manhole in my new strappy shoes. I'd let the pigeons of Union Square eat me alive. Save me, save me!
As we ate I was reacquainted with that glorious postcoital hunger. It was one of those things I'd loved most about sleeping around: the private bliss of settling into my bed, still leaking a stranger's juices, and eating the snacks I'd accrued on the long journey home. Gummy worms, Oreos, seltzer, saltines. Out with my date earlier in the night I would purposefully eat very little, so as to (A) compound my drunkenness, (b) minimize the bloat, and (C) save myself for this ritual. As I feasted in bed, I would think of an expression I'd heard my mom use: She's a bottomless pit. It felt true. Post-pounding, I was at home in my role as a hole. I felt both queenly and gross, indulging what felt like an innate need to be filled.