"I don't remember … I only know I couldn't get away from her quick enough," Blake uttered in disgust.
"Why?"
"Guess I wasn't her type. She … er made fun of me."
"Of you?"
"Yes, of me. It's easy to make fun of someone," Blake said in an echo.
"I'd never make fun of you, Bob. I'd rather die first."
His fingers dug into the wet trousers, down into the drawn flesh. He remembered the many times he had been hurt, hurt by the remarks that had been said in fun. Blake had been hurt too; he understood how it felt, how it made you want to go hide, hide from the ones that said them to you. Anyone could say things. Anyone … among people you were always in danger. It passed when you were alone or among trees … Yes, among trees you were safe, but around people you weren't.
"I know you wouldn't make fun of me without you telling me so, Gay. But there are some that get a big kick out of saying things that hurt a fellow."
"I don't know what anyone would say about you."
"Oh … it wasn't really anything … Seems kinda silly now … guess my ego was cut short."
"Want to tell me about it?"
"If you want to listen."
"I'd love to listen."
"I met this gal in a bar," Blake began, recalling the action very vividly. He saw the girl again … small … cute … carrot hair. "I was drinking at the bar and I felt her leg rub against mine. I didn't mind. She was young and looked like she was out for a good time. Well, I bought her a couple of drinks. We got loaded. Then she asked me if I was as big and strong as I looked and I told her she'd have to find out. Then she handed me some more of that line of hers about me being her type and that she'd just love my big, wide chest over her …"
"So you went home with her?"
"Yes, I went home with her. You should have seen her apartment. Damn what a dirty hole she lived in … But I didn't care
