My peepee. That’s what I called it when I was nine or ten, when I watched Robert Wagner in “It Takes a Thief” on the other box in the room, my black and white TV with the clothes-hanger ears. It was dark in the living room and everyone else was someplace else, and I was alone with Bob—I think some people called him Bob—when he was still gloriously handsome, before he killed Natalie, when his eyes sparkled with mischief and with what I know now as desire.

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