John speared a piece of his Panda Express orange chicken and put it in his mouth. The food court at the mall was loud, and still I could hear his chewing. His suckling. Completely undid that piece of orange chicken before swallowing. We were not all afforded this luxury. John dribbled orange sauce on his tie that he\u2019d forgotten to put over his shoulder. I pushed a napkin at him. The real and exhausting work of a relationship was stupid.<\/p>\n
John\u2019s co-worker (also named John because the name John crosses generational naming boundaries) passed us holding a tray with a hamburger and wiggled his shoulder.<\/p>\n
\u201cCheck it out,\u201d co-worker John said.\u00a0 \u201cHe\u2019s back.\u201d<\/p>\n
My John, who was facing in the direction John indicated, said, \u201cHoly shit.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stretched to get a look. The man in question wore a three-piece suit and looked like a blurry photograph from the late 70s. Handlebar mustache, big Coke-bottle glasses. He was familiar, but I couldn\u2019t place him. When I turned back, my John was eating the cookie that came with my sandwich. When we met for dinner back then, John always got Panda Express, and I\u2019d get a turkey sandwich and a cookie from this place at the corner of the food court that feels like it was a Panera, but I don\u2019t think Panera was ever in malls?<\/p>\n
\u201cI got you your own cookie,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou never eat your own cookie,\u201d he said. \u201cYou take one bite, then give it to me, so I saved us the trouble today. You don\u2019t recognize that guy?\u201d<\/p>\n
The man moved the paper up like a cartoon spy in disguise. Co-worker John smiled at me, said, \u201cBy the way, huge congratulations! Welcome to the club!\u201d then moved a table away where he sat across from a woman who I recognized as his wife. She wore a dress and had one hand on a baby stroller. And\u2014I\u2019m not trying to be shitty because I don\u2019t like when people say this about me\u2014she looked exhausted, just completely fucking wrecked. That baby was like eight months old, and John had told me she was pregnant again. Her hair was pulled back, and she stared off like she couldn\u2019t figure where or who she was. They bowed their heads in prayer before eating their burgers.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s Ron Goldman\u2019s dad,\u201d John blurted.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh god,\u201d I said, lowering my voice. \u201cIt is. Why is he in the mall?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe works at Nordstrom.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe does? Why does Ron Goldman\u2019s dad work at Nordstrom?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s a regular person,\u201d John said.<\/p>\n
We both stared at him, Ron Goldman\u2019s dad reading a newspaper.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s in the paper today? Is there something about O.J.?\u201d<\/p>\n
John said, \u201cNo one reads the paper anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n
He put a napkin over his empty plate and brushed my cookie crumbs off his hands.<\/p>\n
John\u2019s break was almost over. He had to go back to the rich person\u2019s store he worked in, Carter Bishop, a fancy place on the second floor where a polo shirt was $145. And this was 2005, so imagine how much it would cost now. The mall used to be the rich person\u2019s mall but somewhere in the late 2010s, all the high-end stores moved north. To give you some perspective, back then, Barneys was the anchor store, and sometimes after meeting up with John, I\u2019d walk through it, pretending like I\u2019d come back someday with my grown-up money. Barneys was an ocean of beige, vast, unending, and full of perfect, clean lines. The store crafted and laid out this way on purpose, to mimic the soothing ease in which a person with money lives their life. I dare you to feel a sense of calm and possibility in a Wal-Mart aisle.<\/p>\n
\u201cShould we say something?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cSay something? About what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou think we should walk up to him on his break and tell him we know who he is, the father of a murdered person? He\u2019s a guy in a mall. Leave him alone. We see him here a lot. Don\u2019t make it a thing. You make everything a thing.\u201d John said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d I asked. \u201cI make everything a thing? I don\u2019t make anything a thing. You do all the making of things.\u201d<\/p>\n
John stood and picked up his tray. I picked up my tray. We walked to the trash together.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey. What was the last thing Nicole Brown Simpson said?\u201d John asked. He pushed in the greasy trash lid and shook his plate and food inside then plopped it on top with the other trays. \u201cShe said, \u2018I should have had V-8.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not funny.\u201d<\/p>\n
John laughed.<\/p>\n
\u201cO.J. killed two people.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know. I was kidding. Also, technically, he was found not guilty.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRon Goldman was kind of hot,\u201d I said. \u201cI even thought it back then. And he was nice. A gentleman. He brought back her sunglasses. That\u2019s why he was at her house. He was returning her glasses.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pushed the flap back on the trash can and shook my own garbage in then tossed my tray on John\u2019s tray because I like to be on top.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah?\u201d John said. \u201cAnd where did that get him?\u201d<\/p>\n
We walked together toward the escalators. John picked up my hand, held it up, looked at my engagement ring again, a half-carat princess cut. He designed it.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou think Ron Goldman was hot?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJesus.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re also hot, Homecoming King,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou bring that up when you want to insult me, but it\u2019s not an insult. It meant I was well-liked and, also, hot,\u201d John said.<\/p>\n
John and I were like that. Riffing on each other. It was fun, I think, or not. Maybe the truth is that we never respected each other. Once his mom\u2014he had a whole thing with his mom, like, it was good then bad then ok then bad then moderately fine but indifferent\u2014made this comment to us: Oh, I could listen to you guys all day.<\/p>\n
Like we were an act, performers doing a show. We each had a role, and we played it.<\/p>\n
John edged out of the food court. Me? I dropped his hand, edged toward Ron Goldman\u2019s dad, but John took my arm. Steered me away.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh my god, I said leave him alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI think O.J. did it,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou and everyone else,\u201d John said. We stepped up on the escalators.<\/p>\n
John was getting his MBA, and he worked full-time retail nights and weekends because his depression was so intense if he didn\u2019t stay busy 18 hours a day, he\u2019d burrow so far into his own darkness I had to have an intervention for him. I\u2019d have to call his friends, and they\u2019d come over and knock on our bedroom door like hey buddy, let\u2019s get you up ok?<\/em><\/p>\n I am also a depressive and anxious person, and my hot tip is that you can\u2019t have two depressive and anxious people in a relationship because your depression and anxiety tries to out depress and anxious the other, so what happens is that one of you rawdogs your mental health by making offensive jokes and the other curls up around a matted childhood stuffy named Giraffe even though it\u2019s a dog and drinks NyQuil because it\u2019s not alcoholism if you pass out from cold medicine.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s his name? I can\u2019t remember his name,\u201d I said as we rose, and Ron Goldman\u2019s dad got smaller.<\/p>\n \u201cMichael,\u201d John said. \u201cJames? I don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n We stepped off the escalator in sync, right into Matteo\u2019s arms.<\/p>\n Matteo was Italian. Literally, he was from Italy. He\u2019d been at the store with John and the other John for six months and killed the sales board because Matteo had the accent. Rich people\u2014maybe all people\u2014liked to buy suits from men with an accent.<\/p>\n And, according to John, he was fucking every other person in the mall. Women. Probably men too. Matteo was into kink, John said at night while he was flossing his teeth. He was into BDSM. John\u2019s dental floss always stuck to the side of the trash can he never emptied, so guess who emptied it? Guess who had to peel the dental floss off the side of the trash can?<\/p>\n Matteo had fucked all the women at Banana Republic. He\u2019d fucked all the women at Burberry. I said no way. The mall would be in revolt. One guy can\u2019t be fucking everyone and then everyone is out there taking their breaks in the food court together.<\/p>\n Matteo stood near the entrance of the store dapper as usual, hands behind his back like he gave no fucks but, see above, he was giving a lot of them.<\/p>\n \u201cLeah,\u201d he said to me in his accent. He put a heavier emphasis on the ah part. \u201cCongratulations to both of you.\u201d<\/p>\n John patted Matteo on the back hard. \u201cHey, I have to return my backpack but then I\u2019m taking the front ok?\u201d<\/p>\n They all jockeyed for the front of the store. If you were at the front of the store, you got people as they were coming in. Hook them early.<\/p>\n An older couple entered. The woman stopped near Matteo like she smelled something delicious and needed to find where it was coming from.<\/p>\n \u201cI love Italy,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n I drifted to some new sweaters that hadn\u2019t been out last time I was in the store, pawed through them, checked the price tag, then retreated.<\/p>\n \u201cThat would look nice on you,\u201d Matteo said from behind.<\/p>\n \u201cDamn,\u201d I said, hand over my heart. \u201cYou scared me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou should try this on,\u201d he said and selected one for me, slate gray, a color I would not have chosen for myself.<\/p>\n I reached for it. I have never touched anything so soft.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m a medium,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cTry the small.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not a small.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYour clothes, too loose,\u201d he said. \u201cGo. Try it.\u201d<\/p>\n Matteo did have a little something clinging to him. Cookies, cake, his shampoo? I grabbed the medium anyway.<\/p>\n Matteo hung the small sweater on the tiny hook on the dressing room wall, brushed it off, stepped back, brushed it off a second time. He stepped out, barely, I had to kind of shimmy around him to get in. He was 6\u20194\u201d at least. The top of my head reached his chest.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ll like it,\u201d he said, close, his breath minty.<\/p>\n The stall door was wooden with slats. I stepped inside, turned to latch and lock the door but hesitated.<\/p>\n \u201cYou are still writing your movie?\u201d Matteo asked from outside the door.<\/p>\n I tucked my hair behind my ear. Examined my mascara, my eyeliner. \u201cAlways.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s about two people in love, yes?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cUh\u2014it\u2019s about two people,\u201d I said and stopped.<\/p>\n I pulled my shirt off and as my arms were up in the air. Matteo could see them over the dressing room door. I removed the medium sweater off the hanger, the price tag hanging limp. Christ this sweater was more expensive than everything I owned. \u201cHave you seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n At the time, when I\u2019d stay up late\u2014knowing I had to get up in a few hours to answer phones and take lunch orders and set up conference rooms\u2014I\u2019d write my little fucking lines of dialogue in my little fucking screenplays, like, yeah, I\u2019m in my art, and I\u2019m pushing boundaries with narrative<\/em>, and I\u2019m writing thought-provoking dialogue<\/em>. I\u2019m writing a scene about a pool game in a dive bar, but it\u2019s a metaphor<\/em> about how our hearts are broken and keep breaking and nothing, no person or thing or act, will ever make us whole.<\/p>\n Now I get it that I was attracted to deeply unwell people, and I myself was (am?) a deeply unwell person, but in 2005, I was shirtless in that dressing room, a future Oscar winner for best original screenplay.<\/p>\n The sweater was softer on my body than it was hanging on the rack. It was baggy but fine. I liked baggy. Baggy worked. You can do your whole life in baggy.<\/p>\n Matteo looked to the small still hanging on the hook.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is my size,\u201d I said and held up a hand. \u201cThis is what I like.\u201d<\/p>\n In the three-way mirror, it hung on me, but it was comfortable.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is what you like?\u201d Matteo asked. \u201cTurn around.\u201d<\/p>\n I did as he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cTurn around again,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n I turned, once, twice.<\/p>\n \u201cStop.\u201d<\/p>\n I stopped.<\/p>\n \u201cTurn again and face me,\u201d he said. He put his hand under his chin. \u201cNo. No. Go. Put on the small. This is not good for you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt won\u2019t fit,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen you see clothing on that fits you well, you\u2019ll never look at clothing the same.\u201d<\/p>\n I stepped off the riser in front of the mirror and went back into the dressing room, again raised my arms, again stood in my bra with Matteo outside.<\/p>\n \u201cHey Matteo,\u201d I said. \u201cHow long have you been in the U.S.?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA few years. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you know O.J.?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe juice?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes. The Juice.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t much like orange juice.\u201d<\/p>\n I put the small on, and I turned around in the dressing room, looked at myself from behind. He was right. The sweater hugged my body, stopped at my waist, flattered my boobs, gave me cleavage I wasn\u2019t used to having. \u201cThe killer. The football player.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAh. Yes. I know who he is.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou know the other person he killed, Ron Goldman? He was Nicole\u2019s friend. He was the server who brought her sunglasses back to her? You know his dad works in this mall? And his dad was like all over TV for a long time. Trying to find justice for his son. Do you remember his name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI am not sure,\u201d Matteo said as I opened the door.<\/p>\n He\u2019d been leaning against the wall, then stood upright and nodded for me to go to the mirror.<\/p>\n I stepped on the riser. He stepped after me. Matteo brushed against the sweater\u2014brushed against me. I felt woozy. We spoke to each other in the mirror.<\/p>\n \u201cSei cosi bella,\u201d he said in Italian, low and under his breath.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d I asked, mimicking his low tone.<\/p>\n \u201cJohn should get this for you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cOh god. Where would I even wear this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJohn will plan a nice meal for you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cHe already did last weekend,\u201d I said. I knew John was going to propose, so I put on my best outfit, a Gap dress I got on the sale rack. We went to the Olive Garden, then took a walk in the park near our apartment.<\/p>\n Matteo moved my hair off my shoulder.<\/p>\n \u201cSee?\u201d he said. \u201cThese lines. This is what you want in clothing. You can wear this sweater to your job.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019d think I was embezzling. This is a $400 sweater.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAllora devo averti in questo maglione,\u201d he said then smiled. \u201cYou must have this sweater.\u201d<\/p>\n Matteo and I stood in the mirror together, breathing in sync, and before I could whisper back why are you speaking to me in Italian do not stop speaking to me in Italian<\/em>, John popped his head into the dressing room.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ve got a lot of people out on the floor,\u201d he said slowly to Matteo.<\/p>\n Matteo took a step back. \u201cYour wife wears this garment. This garment does not wear her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not his wife,\u201d I said to Matteo in the mirror, then to John, \u201cYet. I mean.\u201d I crossed my arms, stepped down.<\/p>\n \u201cWow,\u201d John whispered to me. \u201cThat\u2019s probably the most expensive women\u2019s sweater in here.\u201d<\/p>\n I put my old clothes back on. My Old Navy jeans, stretched out. My faded t-shirt that was piling under the arms that after having that sweater on, I can\u2019t believe I wear in public. I walked the sweaters to Matteo. He held the small. \u201cThis is what you want?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, I mean no,\u201d I said. \u201cI can\u2019t afford it. Another day, maybe.\u201d<\/p>\n Matteo lightly took my arm, guided me to the register. \u201cYou get this sweater. Seguimi,\u201d he said. \u201cFollow me.\u201d<\/p>\n Matteo stepped behind the cash register. The drawer opened, then he closed it. Out of habit, I dug into my bag for my sunglasses then plopped them on my head. The sun went down an hour ago. Matteo wrapped the sweater in white tissue paper, folded it into the bag. He hit a button on the receipt machine and a slip of blank paper shot out, which Matteo wrote on, then tucked the note into the bag next to the sweater. He walked around the counter and handed my bag to me.<\/p>\n \u201cCiao, Leah,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n John and a man in golf pants stood in front of the ties. John selected one for him and held it up like a butcher with a piece of meat. I waved. He waved back.\u00a0 I crossed the threshold of the store certain an alarm would go off or a SWAT team might descend on me or a rich person might yell imposter, but none of these things happened. I walked quickly, glancing over my shoulder only once. I stopped near the Louis Vuitton store to compose myself. Inside, a tiny woman with long blonde hair stood alone.<\/p>\n Nordstrom loomed. I used to park my car in their garage. Less congested than the main entrance even though the main entrance was closer to the food court. I gathered myself and walked in, and I should have kept walking straight past the beauty counter to the outside garage but instead I browsed the men\u2019s section, comparing. I looked at their ties (less colorful) and wandered into the shoe section where two men stood at the register. One had his arm on the counter. The other was Ron Goldman\u2019s dad.<\/p>\n They sensed my wanting. A good salesperson always does. The man with his arm on the counter made like he was going to move in, but with authority, Ron Goldman\u2019s dad got me first.<\/p>\n \u201cGood evening,\u201d he said. Up close, he was attractive, for an older man. \u201cCan I help you find something?\u201d<\/p>\n I checked for the nametag. Peter? Jack? Ronald Sr.?!<\/p>\n Ron Goldman\u2019s dad seemed like a patient salesman.<\/p>\n \u201cDid you need some help?\u201d he asked again.<\/p>\n \u201cShoes,\u201d I blurted then. \u201cMy, um, my guy. My fianc\u00e9. He wears shoes. And he needs shoes and I\u2019m getting him shoes. He needs brown. Um. Brown shoes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis is the place for shoes,\u201d he said and did a quick once over on me, which is when I remembered I\u2019d put my sunglasses on my head.<\/p>\n Frantically, I yanked them off and stuffed them in the bag, which Ron Goldman\u2019s dad assessed, then seemed even more interested in me because he thought I had money.<\/p>\n \u201cBrown dress shoes,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cFollow me,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n He walked me to a display in the middle of the store. John had one pair of brown shoes and one black. He shined them himself every Sunday evening. John would never buy more dress shoes. He was a money hoarder. Not a bad thing. But he hated spending money. Hated the thought of it. Would rather sit in his underwear on his secondhand couch than buy new anything.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s on his feet all day,\u201d I said. \u201cSo he needs to be comfortable.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs he a server?\u201d Ron Goldman\u2019s dad asked.<\/p>\n Christ almighty, what am I doing here? I can\u2019t buy these shoes. I can\u2019t afford these shoes.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, retail,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll show you the shoes I wear. Almost can\u2019t live without them,\u201d he said. \u201cMy back would have given out years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n Ron Goldman\u2019s dad showed me his shoes by picking up his pant legs, then he showed me the shoe from the display and talked about the insole, the stitching, the leather, and the durability, and I stopped him only once to blurt, \u201cSounds like you\u2019re talking about a life partner, not a shoe, haha.\u201d<\/p>\n He laughed but it was like he didn\u2019t want to. He wanted the sale. I wanted to give him the sale. It was the least I could do. I wanted to leave this mall knowing I helped. Knowing this man in front of me, talking passionately about the heel of a brown shoe, got a little extra money, finally, made me kind of happy for the first time in a long time.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat size?\u201d Ron Goldman\u2019s dad asked.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat size shoe?\u201d I repeated.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, yes. What size is your husband?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFianc\u00e9.\u201d I flashed into our living room, watched John shine those goddamn shoes. \u201cHe\u2019s a size 10?\u201d I said and if Ron Goldman\u2019s dad thought I sounded hesitant, he\u2019d be right.<\/p>\n He disappeared into the back. I sat on a small bench next to a mirror where I could see my own shoes. Old, dull, used, half-dead.<\/p>\n Here\u2019s a thing I didn\u2019t get then, and I barely get now, but what I wanted was the big party and the pretty dress and for John\u2019s and my friends to bring me glasses of champagne and tell me I was beautiful because a wedding day is the only day in a woman\u2019s life where she gets to be the center of attention and not feel guilty or shamed by society about it.<\/p>\n I only came into Nordstrom to get to my car, not buy shoes for John he doesn\u2019t want. Or that won\u2019t fit. I was in men\u2019s shoes. Waiting for Ron Goldman\u2019s dad. Ron Goldman, who is gone. Ron Goldman, who moved to L.A. to become an actor, who took a pair of sunglasses\u2014I am sure they were expensive!\u2014back to his friend\u2019s house because he was a nice and good person raised by a nice and good man. Ron Goldman was living his life, making his plans and then, boom\u2014it was all over. I watched the O.J. bronco chase on TV. Was Ron Goldman\u2019s dad at work when the call came? Did his entire life crash in on him while he was standing in the men\u2019s shoe department at Nordstrom? How could I have even worn sunglasses in here? Don\u2019t I think of anyone but myself? John would ask me this later from under the covers in his bed. It\u2019s always you, oh you\u2019re not happy, oh you don\u2019t feel good, but you hurt people and you hurt me and your choices were wrong and selfish.<\/p>\n That\u2019s really it, Leah. You are unfailingly selfish, and that you refuse to apologize or acknowledge what you did is proof.<\/p>\n I was going to tell him I was sorry. I was going to tell Ron Goldman\u2019s dad I believed him. That\u2019s a hard lesson. When people are sad or broken, you aren\u2019t supposed to make them feel better. You\u2019re supposed to be like, \u201cShit\u2019s fucked, and I see you.\u201d He came toward me with what I asked for. I started to speak, to prove I was valuable as an empathetic person, but the note from Matteo. I reached into the bag, grasped the thin piece of paper between my fingers.<\/p>\n Feeling hurt is the only real way to feel anything.<\/p>\n \u201cMiss?\u201d Ron Goldman\u2019s dad asked as he held the shoes. I opened the note. \u201cAre you ready?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" You can\u2019t have two depressive and anxious people in a relationship because your depression and anxiety tries to out depress and anxious the other, so what happens is that one of you rawdogs your mental health by making offensive jokes and the other curls up around a matted childhood stuffy named Giraffe.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":23111,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-22236","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-stephanie-austin"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22236","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=22236"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22236\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23112,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22236\/revisions\/23112"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/23111"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=22236"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=22236"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=22236"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}