She placed the larger format plays atop the stack of novels. “So what are you doing in Paris?” she asked.“I’m playing bass for my old friend.�...�“Eddie Frank?” she asked, excited.He chuckled and pulled out a CD and signed it for her. “To the world’s loveliest bookseller,” he wrote.“Thanks,” she grinned, looking at it. “I thought you said you were taken.”“Besides being the truth,” he said, “there’s no harm in flirting is there?”“Not in the least,” she giggled. Her grin and giggle made her look. Great. What the fuck am I supposed to dowith this? But me? I’m nothing if not a trooper. I’ve skated hard for like eight years now and taken my fair shareof broken bones and skinned flesh and bruised muscles. And I shake it off and get up and don’tcomplain and get on with it. I’m not some girly girl that needs everything just exactly perfect and amtoo precious to get a little down and dirty. But fuck. Balls? What the fuck am I supposed to do withballs? They’re all big and floppy and I know. More

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