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103 Human Papilloma Virus Spring’s first day vibrating like a razor above the thigh of a girl who hates herself, I serve the woman I love breakfast on the terrace. My eggs radiate with the sun, imported jam for the toast. I’m scoring points, home run after home run. She’s talking of me meeting her folks. The mimosa is sublime, Bessie Smith sings about some bastard, and my love glances over the top of The New York Times, now and then, just for my eyes. The phone rings, and I’m feeling generous, so I answer. My ex- blurts she’s been to a doctor. She’s got it and I’m probably a carrier because she’s been with no one else, and to watch for warts, and in longshot cases, cancer of the penis, and to have a good day, bastard. I hang up, tell my love it was just work. My grandfather, who was a bastard literally and personally, was probably a carrier, but his son-in-law most likely wasn’t. My father had warts on his feet he said came from playing catcher in the majors, but science tells us are from some other virus. Dad, frighteningly young those spring afternoon games, never a bastard, crouching low to the earth, the balls 104 of his feet dug in it. Stadiums poised to erupt if he caught or failed; China-white hands in front of him, waiting for that southpaw bastard to fire his vicious curve, waiting to catch it. Waiting for me to issue forth from his insanely young wife, who waited at home, dreaming I’d grow into a fine young man batting .430, not sleeping around. A man completely different than her father, that bastard. ...

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