He saw her see him.<\/p>\n
Her face said: I know this person. Then he knew he was positively identified, though her expression didn\u2019t change.<\/p>\n
Baffling she should still be here, still on campus, all these years later. In this gaudy, sun-drenched glass box. Except not really: that was obviously a student sitting beside her, working with her, at the table in the corner.<\/p>\n
His fucked-up senior-year crush.<\/p>\n
Bridge too far for stud of any stripe.<\/p>\n
He sat down twenty feet away, a chrome and suede sofa like a goddamn nightclub. Back turned. To Alex. Who\u2019d aged, he\u2019d already seen, into full-on beauty. Those mutant ice-blue eyes. Husky-dog eyes, someone once uncharitably said. When the young blonde woman, the student, finally split, book-bagging her laptop, gliding through the sunshine blasting in from fucking everywhere, exiting where he\u2019d entered, he looked over his shoulder. Found her staring. Got up. Went to her. Sat across the table from her. A safe distance.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy old lesbian friend,\u201d she said, mugging.<\/p>\n
He kept his hands on the tabletop. Nice and visible. Put on a sheepish grin that had been nowhere in his repertoire three decades earlier. Back when he\u2019d first knitted himself that hairshirt. \u201cIt\u2019s me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t believe.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou work here,\u201d he said. \u201cYou teach here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCrazy. Since aught-two. The beloved alma mater.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou get an office?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI do Friday hours here,\u201d she said. \u201cThe youngsters should know it\u2019s a real thing. Li<\/em>-brar-ee, I tell them.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe one I knew is over there,\u201d glancing at the shimmering glass wall on the other side of the room. It separated them from the antique reading room of his youth. \u201cHow do we get in?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s a trick.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sure you get tired of hearing,\u201d he said, \u201cbut the haircut.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cStriking.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGosh. You know we just recently got TV in the house,\u201d she said. \u201cFirst time I saw that Bourdain fellow I had like two and a half whole seconds of it was definitely you. Speaking of things we probably get tired.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDude had more than a decade on me, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWeren\u2019t you going to be a travel writer?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEverything went to shit.\u201d He rubbed his afternoon stubble. \u201cWound up a lawyer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJesus. What kind?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t want to know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy wife, too,\u201d she said. \u201cThe mediation kind. Though these days she runs the local women\u2019s shelter.\u201d<\/p>\n He nodded. \u201cKids?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA boy. Ten. How do you think the TV happened? Alicia never wore me down but that little fucker. You?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTV? You bet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cKids?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNay-o.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMarried?\u201d she asked. \u201cSome nice lesbian?\u201d<\/p>\n He grinned again. \u201cWas.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWas.\u201d<\/p>\n A buzzcut she sported. Gray and sleek, its severity set off by a pair of vaguely Native-American feather earrings. These said professor, not Army officer. Not some fucking CFO, never mind the tailored black suit.<\/p>\n \u201cI guess I should tell you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cUh-oh.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid you know Abby Fachette?\u201d<\/p>\n Her head tilted. Just a few degrees. Enough to suggest a no was coming.<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cMy wife.\u201d<\/p>\n She stared at him.<\/p>\n \u201cDied,\u201d he said. \u201cFour years ago. This month.\u201d<\/p>\n She kept staring at him. The husky-dog eyes. Face blanched. Her gaze slid into the bright could-be-an-airport-lounge behind him. \u201cThat\u2019s why you\u2019re here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFirst time in thirty years. Stranger than fiction.\u201d<\/p>\n Her look suggested readiness to dodge some next grenade. \u201cNever with Abby?\u201d?she asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNever. Who knows why.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou weren\u2019t a couple back then? When we were all here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOf course not.\u201d Important. Still, he hurried past it. \u201cClasses together. That was all. Ran into her in D.C. in aught-one. Monday, September tenth. Can you believe? Met again and the fucking world blew up.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOf course,\u201d she murmured. \u201cD.C.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cD.C. All thirteen years we were married. Arlington, unsexy truth be told.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat did she do?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGuess. Lawyer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis world. What happened? Can I ask?\u201d<\/p>\n He wouldn\u2019t be vague. However much he\u2019d prefer it in this case. It would just prompt a follow-up. \u201cBreast cancer.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFucking–\u201d<\/p>\n She halted it. Paused. Then: \u201cOur California surfer girl.\u201d<\/p>\n He nodded. She\u2019d known Abby, all right. It was the version of her that always pulled hardest at the leash. The one he\u2019d half-gotten on the insane rabid wolf that had mauled and shredded his life. Abby on the beach. Abby in the Pacific sun.<\/p>\n She saw it on his face.<\/p>\n \u201cShould you be here?\u201d she asked. \u201cShould you come places like this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI thought so. I think so.\u201d He looked around absently. \u201cI\u2019m sneaking up on it. Zigzags, tangents. Right now the first<\/em> first place we met. Four years, after all. Time to graduate. Or something.\u201d<\/p>\n They sat. The sun was shifting in the room. There was nobody else around. Friday afternoon in the college library.<\/p>\n \u201cAnyone new?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not dating on the fucking internet,\u201d he said. \u201cPlus which, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n She waited.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not easy. Finding straight women looking to go lesbian.\u201d<\/p>\n It hung out there. A gambit.<\/p>\n \u201cI guess Abby,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cYou know, I did try to tell her.\u201d He went for the sheepish grin again but it felt wrong. \u201cTo express that to her. More than once. Less than appreciative, sorry to say.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n There was a campus cop by their table. Out of absolutely nowhere. \u201cAfternoon,\u201d the man said. \u201cHow we doing, Dr. Brody?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood. We\u2019re good, Ernie. Thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHello, sir. We\u2019re a visitor?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHi,\u201d he said.? \u201cI\u2019m an alum.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s an old friend of sorts,\u201d Alex said. \u201cWe\u2019re good, Ernie.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAll righty.\u201d<\/p>\n He jangled leaving as he hadn\u2019t on approach.<\/p>\n \u201cSo I guess I\u2019ll ask,\u201d leaning back in her chair. Either comfy or wanting more space. \u201cI feel like maybe I should. What that was. Back then. I mean since still. All these years later. The same talk, the same words.\u201d<\/p>\n He looked at his hands on the tabletop.?His newly ringless left.<\/p>\n \u201cI saw you sitting here,\u201d he said. \u201cI didn\u2019t know what to do. I thought I\u2019ll sit and wait. In case I get a chance to say it. To say how sorry. For that. Back in the day. My only defense being I hope it wasn\u2019t all me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot all you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was out of line,\u201d he said. \u201cI know. I know. But I thought, I thought, I thought you saw it in me. Can I say it? The lesbian in me. And maybe on some level. Something in you. Something maybe you\u2019d try. Would be interested in trying. Isn\u2019t that what we do in college? Try things? I never could have done it if I didn\u2019t think.\u201d<\/p>\n She stared at him.<\/p>\n \u201cWe weren\u2019t close,\u201d he went on. \u201cI know. Friends of sorts. As you say to Ernie there. But in classrooms. At catacomb parties. Are the catacombs still here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019re a computing center.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNaturally. I thought something. Something in our sort-of-friends chatter,\u201d he said. \u201cSomething behind it, inside it. Little looks now and then. In hallways. Moments. When Ginsberg was here and we all meditated with him. All in a circle holding hands and would you believe it was you wound up beside me? I thought some vibe. Some emanation transmitting through my palm. Was I wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAn emanation in your palm.\u201d She snorted. \u201cYou’ve got me thinking a lesbian who flirts with a cute boy is looking for trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEverything\u2019s so complicated.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA young lesbian with her blood up,\u201d she said. \u201cBetter stay away from the hot guy in class. Wasn\u2019t that you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAll, all so complicated. You have to see. That\u2019s all I want. For myself, too. I just want,\u201d his baritone\u2019s most soothing register now, \u201cto be complicated, too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSpeaking of complicated.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t tell you how often I thought about you,\u201d he said. \u201cSenior year. Is it strange I\u2019m telling you this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re fifty.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSomething I knew about myself, even in high school,\u201d he said. \u201cThe boy who liked girls just like that sounds but isn\u2019t really a boy. Not in his soul. Not in his heart. Queer. Me. Solidly on the spectrum. Not that I could have articulated it then. Never in my life a one-night stand. Hand to God. Faithful. Thirteen years of marriage, never even looked. Not really. Afraid of first-time sex. First-time nakedness. With anyone.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c\u2018On the spectrum.\u2019\u201d She put air-quotes around it. Maybe mimicked the baritone, too. \u201cBashfulness isn\u2019t. Neither is fidelity. But good for you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s bashful?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot you, as I recall.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat sort of man?\u201d going around it. \u201cStill struggling after four years? And I walk onto campus for the first time in three decades and here you are. What does it mean? How did you know to call me your lesbian friend?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThese words you\u2019re using.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhich ones?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cL words,\u201d she said. \u201cQ words.\u201d Her nostrils flared. Just a bit. \u201cI like my hair this length because it shows off a three-inch scar on the back of my head.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot from jiu-jitsu?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe reason for jiu-jitsu. How the fuck do you know that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe all knew,\u201d brightly. \u201cDidn\u2019t we? Back in the day? The state high-school jiu-jitsu champ. Am I wrong? Indiana. Missouri,\u201d he said. \u201cIs there an Alexandria in Missouri? Aren\u2019t all smart people queer on some level? Don\u2019t make me be straight.\u201d A child\u2019s plea. \u201cIt\u2019s hard enough just getting old. Hard enough being a widower. Listen to that word. Fifty, as you say. If we\u2019re not honest now. If we can\u2019t hop some walls.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWalls protect people. Dude.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know that. I do. Maybe I\u2019ve just come to a more Robert Frost place.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI bet,\u201d nodding, \u201cthat\u2019s a nice place to be able to be.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou still haven\u2019t said.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAbout me your lesbian friend.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFor real?\u201d Incredulous. \u201cThe discourse on the male lesbian. The one you gave in Anna Hearst\u2019s class. Senior year. American women\u2019s lit. Minutes and minutes it went on. Earnest. Lincolnesque.\u201d<\/p>\n He looked off into a corner.<\/p>\n \u201cJesus,\u201d she went on. \u201cQuite the bit of talky-talk that<\/em> generated. Most of it behind your back amongst us girl-folk, I\u2019ll grant. But still.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWas Abby in that class?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re joking,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019re asking? My jiu-jitsu you\u2019ve got on your hard drive.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe was a decade away,\u201d he said. \u201cAsk me her shoe size. Ask me her first car\u2019s nickname. Ask me her high-school boyfriend\u2019s favorite band. Simply not on my radar.\u201d<\/p>\n She batted a feather earring with a fingertip. \u201cBut I was.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut you were. And you didn\u2019t know. You didn\u2019t know. You didn\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThink,\u201d a loose fist beside her jaw now. \u201cHow interested am I getting? Allen Ginsberg-day emanations notwithstanding?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI thought you saw it in me,\u201d he said. \u201cThought you might give it a try.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI so badly wanted to be your last collegiate conquest. Your last and greatest. Your reputation, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh boy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe girl-whisperer,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cWow.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat everyone said behind your <\/em>back.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEveryone.\u201d?Nodding.<\/p>\n \u201cBoy-folk,\u201d he said. \u201cYoung men. What were they? Dudes. Bros. Straight girls, more specifically. There wasn\u2019t one you couldn\u2019t bed. My senior-year housemate. Tomaso. The Peruvian.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh yeah. That<\/em> one.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAt a catacomb party,\u201d he said. \u201cHe was there. I wasn\u2019t. He said someone dared you. Some blonde sorority sister hanging out with the English and philosophy freaks in the catacombs and someone said you couldn\u2019t pull it off. A bet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis is funny.\u201d Her arms were crossed tightly. She\u2019d paled a little again. \u201cThis is so, so funny.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey watched you walk to her. This is Tomaso. Talk to her. Forever he said it took.\u201d He\u2019d lowered his voice. \u201cYou and her in the shadows of one of those brick niches.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUnbelievable. Thirty years later this reaches me,\u201d she said. \u201cAs apocrypha. Geological amounts of time. Through the haze of all that contraband rum and schnapps in soda bottles.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt took you an hour. This is Tomaso. Finally you were touching her face. Then you were stroking her hair.\u201d A near-whisper. \u201cThen your thumb was in her mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n She stared at him. Bright-blue wolf eyes.<\/p>\n \u201cI heard it and I was crazy,\u201d he said. \u201cMy crush. Such a closed person. You. Monadic. Sidereal. Impervious to all bullshit. An enigma. Out on those grounds, in those buildings. I barely recognize half of them. But let me tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n She was shaking her head.<\/p>\n \u201cAfter that. I was desperate for you to discover me,\u201d he said. \u201cIs that something a straight boy says? Your last, your greatest. Your strangest. At some party. Corner me. Pet me. Tell me I\u2019m pretty. Put your thumb in my mouth. Make me your girl.\u201d<\/p>\n She was still shaking her head.<\/p>\n \u201cThe second you said her name,\u201d she said. \u201cI figured you were looking for me.\u201d<\/p>\n He stared at her. \u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe to clear the air or some such bullshit. Then you said she\u2019d died and I thought I guess not. Then I thought: no, wait. He is<\/em> here for me.\u201d<\/p>\n He waited.<\/p>\n \u201cAbby Fachette,\u201d leaning forward. \u201cThat was her at the catacomb party. Not some sorority girl. Abby the English major. Eng<\/em>-lish. You had to know this,\u201d squinting. \u201cYou didn\u2019t know. She never told you.\u201d<\/p>\n He said nothing.<\/p>\n \u201cShe and I were I don\u2019t know what. A thing,\u201d she said. \u201cJust a month. Maybe two. Spring of senior year. And that night. That was the start of it. That\u2019s all. No one dared me anything. No fucking bets. Someone said you like her, go talk to her. Talk.<\/em> Not \u2018whisper.\u2019\u201d Again the air quotes. A migrating sunbeam lit the left side of her bristly head now. An earing\u2019s hook sparkled. \u201cAnd so you know. For the record. I most certainly did not<\/em> stick my thumb in anyone\u2019s mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n He still said nothing.<\/p>\n \u201cThat beautiful girl,\u201d she said. \u201cMalibu blonde. Pure Venice Beach. Sun-kissed.\u201d He didn\u2019t have to reach for the leash this time. \u201cLike a walking Fender Stratocaster.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNice,\u201d he breathed.<\/p>\n \u201cShe had this birthmark. Right? The inside of her thigh. Right?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cVaguely guitar-shaped,\u201d she said. \u201cMaybe that\u2019s why I always thought Fender. That and I thought Hawthorne. Of course. The flaw you don\u2019t dare wish away. The flaw that isn\u2019t one. That perfect girl. Already dangerously faint. The inside of her left thigh. High, high up. Am I right?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet me tell you<\/em>,\u201d leaning in more. \u201cIt was the very first thing I kissed when I got those jeans off her.\u201d<\/p>\n The sun slipped down now behind the old student union out across the lawn. The room gone gently penumbral. What a relief. Fucking spring. The worst. Almost as bad as discovering, thirty minutes earlier, his beloved old library\u2019s molestation, a big, startling glass-and-steel tumor bulging from its side, glinting violently in the sun. A thing too high-tech to be abutting sandstone, green-patinaed copper, crenellated parapets. In this they sat.<\/p>\n He looked over again at the glass wall separating them from the stone archways he wanted. The carved cherry columns. The long walnut tables with their brass lamps. He\u2019d been puzzling how to get through it, around it, egress for ingress, when he\u2019d spotted Alex.<\/p>\n \u201cFirst place Abby ever spoke to me,\u201d he said. \u201cRight in there. Senior year, I think. I was walking in. She was walking out.\u201d<\/p>\n She cocked her head. Marveling. \u201cIs that a Springsteen lyric?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m about eighty percent on it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat did she say?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe said, \u2018Hi.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n Alex nodded. Kept it up until he looked at her again. \u201cIt\u2019s a beautiful story,\u201d she said. \u201cLike all straight-people stories.\u201d<\/p>\n He absorbed it a moment. Then: \u201cWhat about the Nine Eleven-eve one?\u201d<\/p>\n She shrugged. \u201cViolence. Pain. Fire.\u201d<\/p>\n He absorbed it. Then twisted in his seat, examining the hyper-modern room.<\/p>\n \u201cLook at\u00a0this shit,\u201d he said. \u201cLibraries should be dark. Secretive. Monastic.\u201d He gestured with his chin at the glass wall. \u201cI wish I could figure out how to get back there.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n She\u2019d been an abstruse figure in their class. Alex. Prom-queen popular but misanthrope-aloof. Homely but beautiful. Androgynous but smoldering. An out-and-proud lesbian–this was the late eighties, the absurdly early nineties–who lived only with boys. Young men. Dudes, bros. First one local bar band, her housemates, then another. Fiercely, insanely protective of her. Both crews. Out of their fucking minds. Ready to drive rust-bucket Hondas or Mazdas into the living rooms of any local hayseeds who even looked at her wrong on sidewalks, in bars. Then the stories. She\u2019d had a speaking part in an undistributed Jarmusch movie. She\u2019d slept with Michael Stipe. She\u2019d slept with Kim Deal. She\u2019d been a high-school jiu-jitsu champ in some fucked-up state where a lesbian might want to be one. And the best. She was a girl-whisperer. Preternaturally talented. The husky-dog eyes the source of all her powers. This was Tomaso, that shitheel Peruvian. Bitch eyes. No sorority girl safe. No young women\u2019s-studies professor fresh out of Yale safe. That was another story. At a reception after a Gwendolyn Brooks reading their senior year, must have been April, must have been just weeks before graduation, they had another lingering eye-contact incident and this one left him febrile. Never mind how fucking miserable she looked. So little time left. Days. Him and his wicked little crush. He\u2019d move back to the D.C. burbs. She\u2019d probably move to New York. Wind up famous. He was shaking, his stomach growling violently. He could not<\/em> be dissuaded from believing she saw him for what he now knew he was: a lesbian. Trapped in a male body. How much queerer could you get? He realized she\u2019d vanished from the noisy student-union ballroom. Found her in the pollen-dense twilight outside, alone, leaning on the brick building by an exploding yellow forsythia. Playing with a lighter, flicking it on and off, staring at the blue flame. The very picture of someone who\u2019d just been dumped. He stood in front of her, inches from her, and she thumbed the little wheel one last time and this time no spark. Then they watched together as his right hand rose to hold her left breast. It was small and pear-hard and naked inside her thrift-store sports coat, under her threadbare Devo T-shirt. Her nipple fit comfortably between his forefinger and thumb. Her hair looked like she\u2019d lost a fight with a weed-whacker. It was outrageous, this thing he\u2019d done, and he\u2019d had no idea. None. That he was capable. Did this make him a boy?<\/em> They stood together pondering the mystery of his hand. Then it slid down to her bony ribcage when he went in for the kiss. Which she returned. Sort of. He couldn\u2019t have guessed that mixed in with her scent, somewhere in there, maybe hours old or maybe days, was that of his ten-years-future wife. It involved minimal contact. The kiss. In no regards sloppy, and only the very, very tips of their tongues touched. Schnapps she tasted like. It ended, the kiss, and his palm was still pressed to her ribs. She was so thin. He wanted to take her somewhere, feed her, watch her eat. It occurred to him he was lucky none of that berserk wolfpack she lived with was around, and they both stood waiting for her reaction to this event, to these proceedings, even as she stared at him with those blisteringly cold blue eyes.<\/p>\n \u201cTake a step backwards now,\u201d she said. \u201cOr I will fuck you up.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" He saw her see him. Her face said: I know this person. Then he knew he was positively identified, though her expression didn\u2019t change. Baffling she should still be here, still on campus, all these years later. In this gaudy, sun-drenched glass box. Except not really: that was obviously a student sitting beside her, working […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":16914,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-16891","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-stevie-docarmo"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16891","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16891"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16891\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16892,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16891\/revisions\/16892"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/16914"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16891"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16891"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16891"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}