By David L. Hudacek
It started when I was five, and I mispronounced the word “détente.” My mom took me to a speech therapist in Paterson. The therapist told her there was nothing wrong with me. This was after six months of treatment, enunciating phrases printed on laminated placards, things like “Fast frogs fish for french fries.” The therapist leaned in close to me during our sessions, and his breath smelled like the oversized minty thing in a public urinal, so it was hard to concentrate. Plus, he had this black hairy mole that I swear moved to a different location on his forehead from week to week. I wore thick horn-rimmed glasses back then, which must have magnified my eyes, darting about like two goldfish in their bowls, trying to make sense of this mystery.
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