“I'd like your opinion about
something,” she said.
“Sure."
"I want you to be honest with me," she said.
"You have to be honest about this. None of that polite bullshit."
"Sure," I said, "I'll be honest."
I was surprised to hear Mrs. Dent say the word
"bullshit." Until that point, it hadn't seemed like a word she might
use. But seeing her sitting there in the kitchen with her hair undone and an
empty scotch glass in her hand, it started to make sense. I pictured her like
this every night after wrestling that bouncy Andrew into his bed. She'd have a
scotch and watch old movies on television, staring at people who made sense to
her.
"Do you know what labiaplasty is?" she asked
me.
