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10 mY Wife insisTsThAT, on oUr firsT dATe, iTold her i hAd seVen Kinds of hAir straight, frizzy, chest, nose, pubic . . . what was i thinking? seven is special, i know. seven thieves. seven wonders, sleepers, worthies, gables, cities, seventh sons of seventh sons with more mojo than seven men. We ate at mogo’s, i remember, where we chose from a dozen kinds of vegetables, as well as chicken, turkey, pork, and beef. The chef spilled our choices onto a grill, then moved from pile to sizzling pile, chopped, smoothed, arranged until, with his skilled spatula, he heaped hot meals into the begging bowls we both thrust out. i led us to a dim corner, well aware that of the three body types, six kinds of laughs, five kinds of breasts, and eight varieties of lips, hers held the summit of each heap. her long, dark hair and sapphire eyes made my hands shake. her shape unhinged my diaphragm. i’ll bet i groped in my suddenly dim brain, and spilled whatever i found onto our talk, i was so eager to keep it sizzling, so hungry to seem a man whose invention never failed, well-endowed with all good things, including hair. “At least one kind,” i must have meant, “is right for you.” ...

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