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I hit the ground, simultaneously running and groping—with an emphasis on the latter.The first body I ran into belonged to someone I met at a party who leaned across the table, touched my arm with a warm stroke of his index finger, and asked about my tattoos. After a brief conversation, I discovered what his looks already betrayed: He was Italian.However, in place of my professional achievements, I inserted euphemisms and insinuations of what I was really on the market for.I didn’t mince words when it came to my proclivities.Maybe she would have a stoically attractive and muscular moving man?Instead, I deleted the Italian stallion’s number and updated my online dating profiles.She rhapsodized about the merits of “big men” as she opened yet another bottle of Chardonnay to wash down dinner.

To her, he was a strapping Italian playboy around her age, so she trusted him with her body over hours of sporadic companionship while tethered to a chemotherapy drip.

You’re bewildered and blinded and in a temporary world of pain.

I emerged from the basement in full workout gear ready to run a half-marathon.

She had always warned me about seeming loose, but the way her friends had described her posthumously—fun, bubbly, and always very…social—led me to believe that, for all of her restraint and attachment to outdated manners and chivalry, she had projected an image of WASP-threatening sex appeal.

I went out on countless coffee dates courtesy of computer algorithms and digital photographs.

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