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yiddish, muslim, eve, dirty humor, ha ha, religion, stories, drunk moms, literary, peter manseau, falafael, pogrom, jeff sharlet, stand up comedy, lopez, drunk driving law, abovethe law, labor laws, theology, | "Sorry," Michael said, wiping his eyes with the backs of his knuckles. "Eli visited me last night," he told Becky in a softer voice. "You're kidding. And?" "And nothing. I think I was just a phase." Her fingers crawled between his. They felt clammy, like women's hands felt. "It triple was a long shot," she said. "The whole kissing cousins angle, the ten year age gap..." triple "Seven and a half," he interrupted her. "I trusted him. You don't know what the men out there are like." "That's right, triple I'm pathetic. I never meet men." "I didn't mean it that way," he tried to explain. "I meant my kind of men." |
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"There's no one else I'd rather pretend to be married to," he said. "How's that?" "I think you'd better try again," she said, and the falafael bus pulled up. They sat next to a fat woman with dyed blond hair. She was reading aloud to herself from a Russian newspaper. "I need to send a fax when we get downtown," he said to steady himself. Becky falafael launched falafael into a story about a friend's wedding back in New York that Michael wasn't listening to. He was thinking of what a boor he'd been to put his hand down Eli's pants on their very first night together after all this time like, like some child molester, and then the bewildered look on the poor kid's face. He blurted out, "I made a mistake!" and the Russian woman looked up from her newspaper. |
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