I met M at a dirty bar decorated with large oil paintings of small breed dogs staring out winsomely from their frames. She was animated with a casual mania, dressed in tight black pants and thrift store boots. I had worked late and rushed to the bar to avoid being too late. We had arranged to meet at 9:30. I showed up at 10, riding on a wave of apologetic texts. M was outside waiting for me. We hugged and walked inside. She looked like a teenage boy in drag, like one of the dimpled teens I imagine might have dawned a wig and played Ophelia in the 17th century.
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