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talks to a man over some kind of salad
from the sunny side of lunch, reminded
of some certain long gone day with one
sunny old friend, a bottle of wine and
the only pack of cigarettes she ever
purchased. Never smoked, but knew in her
muscles, as if always, to tap the ash
with the second finger. A knocking, a
call, askance. A world between one
intake and another, physical years
between them.
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