Lilith’s little cabin isn’t exactly swank: stained carpet, chipped tiles. Still, she’s made the most of what she has. She is, apparently, the kind of person who can toss a blanket and some peacock feathers around and give birth to style. The place is a tiny junior one-bedroom, but isn’t that enough for someone who is –
“Nineteen,” she
says when I ask. “Twenty in December.”
Jesus Christ.
I feel a little sick. Why don’t I just put on a trenchcoat and go to perv
school? I mean, she’s legal and all, but how could I think that a young girl
like this would want some sort of weird romantic entanglement with a
middle-aged couple? How could I think that, indeed?
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