I don’t like that he looms over me from this distance. I am not a short woman, but he makes me feel positively petite. Sometimes I like that. Sometimes I want that. But as I’m trying to stare him down, drive home with a bespectacled glare that his opinions on Derrida are positively ludicrous, I want to feel tall.

We are both drunk.

“Can I kiss you?”

“No. You can back off and finish your damn point, execrable as it was, about deconstructionism.”

He settles back so he’s not looming quite so much, and starts up again. “The entire notion of deconstructionism has damaged Western ability to assimilate new concepts of story structure.”

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