…g any woman in the company of any man whose constructed identity is crumbling before her very eyes. Grace was a woman who, like so many of us, has watched a man who seemed so good, so normal, so nice, turn into a pair of hands and a dick and an inability to hear the words “no” or “not right now” or “I’d like to go home” or “Why don’t we just watch the movie” or “I’m going to get a glass of water” or “I’m going to call a Lyft” or “I don’t feel well” or “Whoops, I’m on my period” or “Let’s just hold each other” or “I have to get up early tomorrow” or or or or or or or or or or or.
…tput that is less than perfect will be blamed on me, and not on a hastily-written, untested recipe. I’ve made flaky pie crusts in the kitchens of Air BnBs using warped cutting boards and a bottle of wine as a rolling pin, but this won’t matter. I’ve fucked up the recipe.