She didn't read the enitre thing, but skipped to the end of her "Dear Jane" letter and tried to feel the words he had written at the bottom. "I love you" meant nothing after all the cliche's she was sure he had written, but just then she needed it to mean something.
Cally didn't know people broke up through letters anymore. That was the kind of thing people in her Grandmother's generation did. Cally's generation was supposed to write emails or texts. Letters were too physically real.
She physically crumpled the paper and tossed it in the bin.
Penis, penis, penis. What the hell was so special about them, anyway? It wasn't as if Luke was the only man she knew who could wield that rediculous piece of flesh. It was no excuse for his behaviour.
Her friend Matt had a penis, and just last week he had proposed to his girlfriend of five years. Her father had a penis, and he had spent over twenty faithful years with her mother. Cally thought her neighbour Sam might have a penis too, but there had been that awkward incident at dinner where she'd run into him in the ladies washroom.
But that wasn't any of her business. Pseudohermaphroditism aside, her neighbour was a moral man.