…I swore, Paltrow flinched. Her muscles tightened. Her eyes winced. She turned away. And I felt bad. Twenty years later, I still wonder at why I pitched that fuck at Paltrow. Was I insecure? Did my unconscious need some swagger? Did my fuck indicate to Paltrow that I knew who she was without showing that I knew who she was? Or was I simply in a bad mood?
chelsea g. summers