by Diane D. Gillette Andras Kovacs The massacre wasn’t planned. Not exactly anyway. But it got lonely only coming out of our rooms to dance with future husbands whose hands couldn’t tell the difference between the smalls of our backs and the rounded curve of our rears. It got tiresome trying to make conversation only to be told to keep our opinions to ourselves. Perhaps if we’d been allowed to talk to someone other than each other, we might not have heard the call of the bria