We play this game. You say something nice. I say something nice. You say something mean. I say something mean. We fuck. You aren’t so into it now. Your nice isn’t that nice—beautiful, really? That sounds like a lazy lie to me, but it’s my turn to say something nice. Your mean isn’t that mean. Something about my driving, like I care. You say, “Are we just trying to manufacture feeling here?” “Yes.” “Let’s keep it simple,” you say and take hold of my ponytail and pull it hard. “Better,” I say. “Make it meaner.” You do, making it hurt—I…