Three priests stand on the footpath. All men. This is Sydney. “We were just talking about troubled women,” one of them quips, “and you rock up.”
I’m about to riposte, “if you’re not troubled you’re already dead,” when I realise they wouldn’t say this to a man. Even if the priests were female, “troubled men” isn’t a category. Men are meant to be troubled since (it is assumed) they deal with the big, bad world. A troubled man is a good man. Concerned.