Saturday, December 12, 2009


You see her stuffing her thin arms into the sleeves of her red woollen cardigan, and she is across the inlet. She shouts "I'll come over soon" but you hear "It will be over soon." She comes near and you smell the Gauloises in her hair. You warm her cheek with the back of your left hand as she grasps your right. Her Revlon lips taste like plastic, her tongue nicotine and spearmint.

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