When people ask me what I like about you (X.), I’m not sure I know the answer. Or I’m not sure I can talk about it. Or I do know the answer, but they’re not things I can explain, or that matter to other people. In my head I know it’s partly because you are still wild. Meaning, you haven’t been completely socialized or socially brainwashed yet. That doesn’t mean you don’t have other bad tapes running through your head. But you’re not a fake, in the way that becoming (a) fake is like an American rite of passage these days. You still do and say the things you’re not supposed to do and say. You still act the way people are not supposed to act. You still feel things that people have stopped feeling, and your feelings show—they are all over your face—even when you don’t want them to. You are like a character in a movie and you make me feel like I am one too. You know—the kind of interesting, guarded, passionate chip-on-her shoulder misunderstood woman that people—men—only like in the movies. You don’t ask me to change. You don’t tell me what’s wrong with me. You don’t try to correct my behavior. You innately understood me. In other words, I think you knew me the moment you saw me. I think I knew you, too. Of course I could be wrong about all of this.