Reddy Fox---

"admiring my new red silk blouse, stroking his fingertips down the front, and my eyes wide, because I could feel his fingers on my chest, even though I was holding the blouse in front of me on a hanger to be admired. All those moments, and all they meant was that I was fooled into thinking I knew these people because I knew the small things, the personal things."

Once again I turn to "The Burning House" by Ann Beattie for help in these tumultuous times.

I, like the protagonist in this, my favorite short story, believe I actually know the men in my life because I can list their favorite foods, colors, and songs. And like a stupid, naive girl I always think that boundaries don't matter. Age, sex, country of origin. But like Gatsby, I "beat ceaselessly" against a current that always knocks me back to square one. People are different. We don't really ever know anyone. And life is pretty pointless.

I learn my lessons the hard way.