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78 Ingratiating the Monster It may be hard to earn his trust, but I’ve seen worse. Men flaunting perfect abs and smooth complexions yet hideously empty inside. Become his Franken-Freud. Analyze his Faustian childhood: controlling father, hand-me-down body parts, soulwrenching rejection. “Dear Frankie, big, beautifulhearted Frankie, I know, I know Darling,” you say stroking his chartreuse skin, careful not to snag your sweater on his hardware: thick metal bolts, umbilicus that gave him life through a pair of rusty jumper cables. Ignore his scent—the scent of tires skidding on tar. And know that he’s self-conscious about his gait, legs that move like trees uprooting and rerooting. Remember not to stare at his griddle-flat head, or the quilt of scars that stitch his blank yet poignant expression. At night when the clouds have turned to suede, bring your soft touch to his bedside, read to him—Beauty and the Beast or Prometheus. Pull his patchwork head to your bosom, and should you notice a murderous rage in his bloodshot eyes, a quiver in his thin black lips, know that for some, love can be hard to bear on top of all that wanting. ...

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