One day, as we were perusing the want-ads in the Village Voice, my sister remarked that in spite of four college degrees between us, neither was qualified to work a New York City car wash.
One of the local newspaper pages that I like posted a link to their latest article, and I would have scrolled right past it if I hadn’t seen the word “Montvale.”
What most surprised me when I encountered Frank, the man who’d raped me twenty-eight years earlier, was that I wondered if he still found me attractive.