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Growing up in Manhattan, I was an obsessive girl with a dog-hungry appetite for books beyond my years.
(I read without understanding that impotence was the nasty catch in the love story.) On lonely afternoons, I'd pay what I liked (25 cents) and pass the time wandering the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Sitting on the floor with a much younger woman—both hunch shouldered and naked as apes, their legs intertwined, her arms tugging at his neck—he kept his head back, chin tilted up at a slightly aloof angle.
His domineering posture, and that amber glow, spelled out something complex and unmistakably adult.
A writerly mind in cowboy boots, always eager to play up his remove from the Establishment, he courted me long-distance with two-hour phone calls, eventually flying me to his ranch out west.
In other words, there's a limit to the perspective a person can have about herself—but there are patterns.
My own began to emerge at the age of eight, with a glimpse at the VHS cover of .