She could close every comment, every argument. Last words were her specialty: last words and stage whispers. She could keep a list a mile long. She could drink scotch and laugh with the men. And with the Bitch, I was funny and glib. With her, I had a context, a ‘tude, a style. With the Bitch boa wrapped around my shoulders, nothing could hurt me. My stride was, sexy, witty, and impermeable.
I have a 40 mph brain. It’s my tempo for visiting, for looking, for exploring, for mulling the decisions. It’s not a literal odometer speed for all those things—of course. But it translates into 40 mph when my foot hits the gas in an unfamiliar city. More than that and I’m feeling pressed. When I [...]