“Salvatore,” I say, “and yes.”
“That makes you Fran Minervudottir,” he says, “and… oh. Oh, shit. I’m sorry, I do have the wrong number.”
“Hold it!” I say. “How do you know my name?”
“I, uh… let’s just pretend this never happened,” Bert says. “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Minervudottir. Though I am glad to know you answer quickly… er, I mean… uh, take care.”
“Hey! Don’t hang– are you there? Hello?” The phone beeps in my ear; the call has ended. “Son of a bitch!” I hiss. A couple of students pass by me, glaring at my outburst. “Ex-boyfriend,” I lie, chuckling as politely as I can muster.
I think I just figured out what caused the car crash.
I am under the firm belief that this world is biased against women.
This thought rushes through my mind as I struggle with the bra strap caught on the blade of the washer’s agitator turbine. It had to have been a man who invented the bra, and it had to be a vengeful male deity who decided that women would eventually need it in the first place. I never envied Kyle her chest– I find that it’s mostly guys who do like to see large mammaries– but at the same time, I’m just endowed enough to need a little help now and again.