Come tomorrow, I won’t remember what you wrote in that novel. I’ll only remember that its cover came away and ripped in my fingers as I removed it from the top shelf, tightly packed. That I devoured it like a fruit, sucked up the juice, and threw the skin away from me. That it landed with a hollow thud on the bedroom floor. That the brightly painted girl on the front and the photo inside the jacket did not match. That the monochromatic image of you (steady gaze with forearms crossed) was less fanciful, but somehow, so much more beautiful.



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