I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close,
their smell of beer or fifteen-year-old whiskey. Men who
didn't come to the emergency room with you, men who left
on Christmas Eve. Men who slammed the security gates, who
made you love them then changed their minds. Forests of boys,
their ragged shrubs full of eyes following you, grabbing your
breasts, waving their money, eyes already knocking you down,
taking what they felt was theirs. It was a play and I knew
how it ended, I didn't want to audition for any of the
roles. It was no game, no casual thrill. It was three-bullet
Russian roulette.
— Janet Fitch,
White
Oleander
