the last memoryGlory and I spoke over the phone a year or two into undergrad. I was having girl trouble.
“How do I, uh, how do I, uh…” I searched for the word. “You know. How do I woo women?”
“How did you woo me?”
“I wooed you?”
Her sigh emerged as static. “Joe, what do girls like?”
“I don’t know.”
An outburst of bitter laughter. “Girls like chocolate and p***y,” she explained.
“Ah,” I said. “Okay.” I wasn’t sure how that was supposed to help.
I dredged through memories of Glory and was surprised to realize the prevalence of both. I guess I shouldn’t have been. Mom would buy chocolate truffles from Balducci’s for me to give to Glory, and she loved them. We’d feed each other on late nights in her Jeep.
We broke up a week after my parents and I returned from an Islamic retreat in Tu
