Not That Kind of Girl: A Young Woman Tells You What She’s “Learned”. Lena Dunham
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deep between my legs, a fact he seemed not to remember at the next staff meeting. He ran The Grape with an iron fist, verbally abusing underlings right and left, but I passed muster and he often invited me to sit with him in the cafeteria, where he and his tiny Jewish sidekick, Goldblatt, ate plates piled high with lo mein, veggie burgers, and every kind of dry, dry cake. Mike and I were engaged in a constant war of words. It was flirtatious. We worked hard to impress and even harder to seem like we didn’t care.
“I don’t think monogamy can ever work,” he told me one day as we were meeting over cafeteria hash browns.
“I don’t care. I’m not your girlfriend,” I said.
“And thank God for that, toots.”
I giggled. I was something far cooler than a girlfriend. I was a reporter. A temptress. A sophomore.
That winter, I went home for a month with mono, and during that time Mike checked in with me often, under the pretense that he was “struggling, missing my A team over here” and getting pulverized by our rival, The Oberlin Review. On the night of my return, glands still swollen, I wore a vintage wedding dress to dinner with him and Goldblatt at the nicest restaurant in town. Mike smiled at me like we were a real couple (a couple that brought a tiny Jewish sidekick everywhere we went).
A few weeks later Mike came over to my room to watch Straw Dogs.
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