We headed out for dinner after he'd pissed on me. I swallowed most of it, the rest he did over my face and into my hair, which had lacquered on the walk downtown and now hung over my eyes in taught, bolshie curls like I was some sort of wanna-be teen movie star. The place he chose was on west eighty-sixth, and it struck me as the sort of schizophrenic diner that serves suits and soccer moms
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