Ah, yes.  Just when I thought I was out of the woods, the Surgeon leaves a batshit crazy furious message on my voicemail.  

      I’ve avoided him, in part, by not answering my phone unless I recognize the number.  This is because he calls from random phones all over New York (and beyond).  

     Today I ate a shrimp taco for lunch with Advo and was trotting home when my phone beeped.  Margo has voicemail!

       Hmmm, I think, in my blessed ignorance.  I wonder who’s calling me…?  

       The Surgeon’s voice, bristling with hostility: Who gave you that bruise on your arm?  What rank amateur?  Was he drinking?  Were you drinking?  You shouldn’t wear short sleeves to school with that on your arm.  Do you know what people must think of you?  I can’t believe you leave the house like that.   

       The hands shake so badly that I almost drop my telephone. 

        I let this man beat me a thousand times.  I craved it.  I let him into my home.  

        He is a sadist for real.  Not like me.  He is for real.  The real deal.  And he’s obsessed.  

       Where did he see me?  When?  

        I might have to seek outside help for this.  

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