In high school, a teacher gave me his copy of Lolita. But only after he read me the opening lines —“light of my life, fire of my loins”—over french fries in a diner, late at night when I should have been home. When he spoke those words to me, my hands cupped around a mug, my palms warming from the stale coffee, I was as in love with him as any teenager could be. I couldn’t believe I was so lucky that this grown man would, as he often reminded me, risk his job to spend time with me alone.