He was as hard as a rock. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. The resemblance was amazing! And some man—he was good-looking—was in the background. Things got hot and heavy in the car the next night, and he peeled off her skirt and top to reveal her underwear. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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