The other night, while riding the Amtrak back upstate from New York City, I struck up a conversation with an elegant woman across the aisle. She was a former model — willowy, aloof, long beaded earrings grazing her collarbones, eyes as blue as a pool.

“Did you grow up in Manhattan?” she asked after a few minutes.

“I didn’t,” I said quickly. I was restless, frayed. I’d been in the city for a Pap smear and still felt dislocated — the aftermath of being probed, reduced to parts.

“But you must have gone to a private school,” she said, wagging a bejeweled finger toward me. “You have a certain air.”

I smiled, turned toward the window. My 13-year-old self would have been thrilled by this conversation. She had worked so hard to manufacture gloss , to slip fluidly in and out of fancy social c

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