Oh, Justine. Who are you besides someone the author made up as a lyrical patois of a Marquis de Sade victim and her own self? What would we say if we learned you weren’t born poor, or downtrodden, or ugly? Your childhood was beautiful and brightly speckled with an eccentric cast of characters that made things just interesting enough but not too odd to cause hairpin fractures of damage on your psyche. And speaking of Psyche, should the author share that she is the goddess that most often crosses her mind when she sees Justine standing on the side of the emerald hill, galvanized steel bucket of blueberries at her side, squinting at the infinity of these dizzy mountains? The author sees Justine as someone to envy, someone to fear, someone to sit behind in Geometry class and examine glossy black hair by glossy black hair, to feel all muscles soften a bit when she flicks that raven feather cloud over a smooth shoulder. Justine is beautiful but flawed (like each and every woman alive or dead), temperamental but settled, and in love with two men. I’m sure you’ve known or at least imagined someone like her. I’m sure you’ve seen her in art museums, squinting at Hockney, or at the grocery, sniffing at reduced price cantaloupe.