(There will be another one.) She reads his mind in his touch, two fingers to her elbow. His face is professional. Careworn and useful. His briefcase is tan; his smile is made of leather. They hold the things he needs, that take away the thing that she needed. That trim away its entrails, slippery as hope. That wrap them up in headlines. (With Long Hot Summer Ahead, She Confesses Love For The Sea!) Then throw them away. How strange it is to mourn such an infinitesimal loss, so easily duplicated. An aberrant thought among many. (No more important than most).



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