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44 Sexes “Whatever has to do with love,” she hummed, “is all that matters to me.” He continued sanding the last walnut brace for a table he’d been assembling for months and said, “We agree.” “The fact that you agree makes you different from most men.” “How?” “You make things with your hands, you read, you’re not obsessed with money, class, competition, and the rest.” Each time she spoke of men, she made him feel exempted. Why he never discovered. “So many men,” she resumed, “would love an airport or a building or a street named after them or else be resurrected as a statue or a stamp . . .” He thought of iron generals on iron horses in the heart of Washington and smiled. “Women,” she said, “don’t give a hoot about that.” “I guess that lasting means less for women than living in the moment . . .” “See what I mean?” “About what?” 45 “About how different you are from other men—the way you look at things.” He tipped both ends of the brace with glue and locked it in position. “What do you think?” he asked. “I think you’re one hundred percent right about women.” “I mean the table— how does it look?” “It looks like a good table.” “Furniture is good when no one can see what’s holding it together.” “The same holds true for love between two people, doesn’t it.” “I suppose it does.” “Love as glue . . . bonding . . . do you see the connection?” “If you say so, I see it.” “I say so.” ...

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