When I heard the professor had to testify first, I knew the jig was up. Dr. Christine Blassy Ford was so helpful, careful, and polite. “Is that all right?” she’d ask. “Thank you,” she’d say. A nice woman. She was still hurting; I could see it. As she told her story, despite her degrees and professional accolades, she was still feeling the assault, her girlish bathing suit her only protection against the clawing, drunken fingers of a boy-man. That was you, Brett. You said you didn’t recall anything about it or her. It wasn’t enough to register as a memory. Or maybe you were too drunk to remember. She remembered.

I’m a late bloomer. Really late. Kind of wrinkly and fat late. Gray hair late. Getting Social Security late. 

I bloomed once with everybody else my age. Basically, it was hell. Except for looking passable in a bikini, those blooming years were a colossal waste of time. I spent time getting permanents to make my straight hair curly. I spent time obsessing over dolts. I spent time being ashamed of my anger, my sexual appetites, and my bad parenting skills. I spent time, mostly all of my twenties, wondering if I should be this or that.