Love means never having to say you're sorry.
What the hell makes you so smart?" I asked.
"I wouldn't go for coffee with you, " she answered.
"Listen -- I wouldn't ask you."
"That, "she replied "is what makes you stupid."
And then I did what I had never done in his presence, much less in his arms. I cried.
He had then warned his daughter not to violate the Eleventh Commandment.
"Which one is that?" I asked her.
"Do not bullshit thy father," she said.
I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons.
The pain of not knowing what to do was exceeded only by that of knowing what I had done.
Please, if one of us cries, let both of us cry. But preferably neither of us.
What term do you employ when you speak of your progenitor?"
I answered with the term I'd always wanted to employ. "Sonovabitch."
"To his face?" she asked.
"I never see his face."
"He wears a mask?"
"In a way, yes. Of stone. Of absolute stone.
Her handwriting was curious - small sharp little letters with no capitals. Who did she think she was? E. E. Cummings?
"But what does he do to qualify as a sonovabitch?" Jenny asked.
"Make me", I replied.
"Beg pardon?"
"Make me", I repeated.
Her eyes widened like saucers. "You mean like incest?" she asked.
"Don't give me your family problems, Jen. I have enough of my own."
"Like what, Oliver?" she asked, "like just what is it he makes you do?"
"The 'right things'", I said.
"What's wrong with the 'right things,'"she asked, delighting in the apparent paradox.
Now would you do me a favor?' From somewhere inside me came this devastating assault to make me cry. But I withstood. I would not cry. I would merely indicate to Jennifer - by the affirmative nodding of my head - that I would be happy to do her any favor whatsoever.
'Would you please hold me very tight?' she asked.
I put my hand on her forearm - Christ, so thin - and gave it a little squeeze.
'No, Oliver,' she said, 'really hold me. Next to me.'I was very, very careful - of the tubes and things - as I got onto the bed with her and put my arms around her.
'Thanks, Ollie.'
Those were her last words.
"I think the Peace Corps is a fine thing, don't you?" he said.
"Well," I replied, "it's certainly better than War Corps."
What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?
Either way I don't come first, which for some stupid reason bothers hell out of me, having grown up with the notion that I always had to be number one. Family heritage, don't you know?
What the hell makes you so smart?" I asked.
"I wouldn't go for coffee with you, " she answered.
"Listen -- I wouldn't ask you."
"That, "she replied "is what makes you stupid."
And then I did what I had never done in his presence, much less in his arms. I cried.
He had then warned his daughter not to violate the Eleventh Commandment.
"Which one is that?" I asked her.
"Do not bullshit thy father," she said.
I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons.
The pain of not knowing what to do was exceeded only by that of knowing what I had done.
Please, if one of us cries, let both of us cry. But preferably neither of us.
What term do you employ when you speak of your progenitor?"
I answered with the term I'd always wanted to employ. "Sonovabitch."
"To his face?" she asked.
"I never see his face."
"He wears a mask?"
"In a way, yes. Of stone. Of absolute stone.
Her handwriting was curious - small sharp little letters with no capitals. Who did she think she was? E. E. Cummings?
"But what does he do to qualify as a sonovabitch?" Jenny asked.
"Make me", I replied.
"Beg pardon?"
"Make me", I repeated.
Her eyes widened like saucers. "You mean like incest?" she asked.
"Don't give me your family problems, Jen. I have enough of my own."
"Like what, Oliver?" she asked, "like just what is it he makes you do?"
"The 'right things'", I said.
"What's wrong with the 'right things,'"she asked, delighting in the apparent paradox.
Now would you do me a favor?' From somewhere inside me came this devastating assault to make me cry. But I withstood. I would not cry. I would merely indicate to Jennifer - by the affirmative nodding of my head - that I would be happy to do her any favor whatsoever.
'Would you please hold me very tight?' she asked.
I put my hand on her forearm - Christ, so thin - and gave it a little squeeze.
'No, Oliver,' she said, 'really hold me. Next to me.'I was very, very careful - of the tubes and things - as I got onto the bed with her and put my arms around her.
'Thanks, Ollie.'
Those were her last words.
"I think the Peace Corps is a fine thing, don't you?" he said.
"Well," I replied, "it's certainly better than War Corps."
What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?
Either way I don't come first, which for some stupid reason bothers hell out of me, having grown up with the notion that I always had to be number one. Family heritage, don't you know?
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