“I’m glad you introduced us,” the new boyfriend told the old one.
“And I guess it’s working well?”
“She has a ways to go, but we’re getting there. I make a few missteps and she revolts, but things are evening out.”
It’s nice to hear him say he makes mistakes; I don’t feel that my failings are all my fault. Though I am punished for every aberration—whether his fault or mine—punishment is easy to take. I think my body has come to expect and welcome it. And—if the problem is really his fault—he always give me a s****l finish.
The standard mode of correction is simple. He sits in his leather chair. I stand before him looking down into his harsh, though sometimes perplexed expression. He addresses the difficulty head on, outlining where I’ve failed to comply or meet his standards (This is
