McSweeney's 44 [antikvár]

THE GUSHER by REBECCA CURTIS D ear Don Abrax, Hi. How are you? I imagine that you're staying inside your apartment in this rain. Also, yes! I'm sure you've your extra-large umbrella to keep you dry, should you be forced into the torrent by any particular need—for, say, the Sunday Times, or a chicken burrito from Chipotle with extra salsa. So why am I writing you a letter? I know I could tell you anything I cared to in person. But you're right that sometimes it—talking—is easier for me with a pen in my hand. And I've been thinking, since our conversation about women who don't like the physical union between a man and a woman, but who, in order to win a husband, will pretend they do, about a woman I forgot to mention: an