I could not reply as I realized that my wallet had told her everything about me and my life. But she was not sympathetic. "Get up, whore," she barked,...yanking me up by the hair. "Look at what a mess you've made on the bed," and then, shoving my head down again, "go on slut, clean up the mess you've made, use your tongue," she shook my head fiercely again. I knew that to resist would invite a further beating and my jaw still hurt from the force of the first punch, so I stretched out my tongue. Some of the articles presumed knowledge that she didn't have which led her to the library.She was sitting in the library late Saturday night. Wearing her reading glasses, she'd pinned her hair up rather than spend the time fixing it. She was dressed in blue jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt. Not that long ago, she'd sworn to herself that she would never wear sweatshirts again, but amended that pledge soon afterwards to include the words "out of body shame." This was strictly a matter of. More

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