So legally speaking, I am a man. Almost. And I did the stupid trapeze exercise without a bunch of whining and complaining, unlike a certain ex-diva I could name. A certain ex-diva I’m not currently speaking to unless Shakespeare is supplying the words. Things between us have been pretty frosty since she told me I was a little boy, but I guess it’s good for our performances—Flannery actually said, “Okay, that didn’t suck,” after our rehearsal the other day. Which is pretty much the equivalent of a Tony nomination from anyone else. Still, Charlie’s gotten inside my head. Because what does it mean to be a man, really? One day I’m sitting at lunch reading some manly detective novel when Kyanna approaches me. “Hey, bookworm,” she says. “I need some exercise before my four o’clock call. My trusty phone tells me there’s a place that rents mountain bikes about ten miles away. You feel like giving me a ride?” Do I feel like giving Kyanna a ride? I suppose a grown man wouldn’t so much as arch an eyebrow at the double entendre, so I close my book and say, “Sure.”
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