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You’ve had this thing inside my mother, and he lost it there in my palm, shrunk away from me, out of my room into his car and then away. She slashed his tires and wicca so I had to move out. Had to. And now, here she wicca is, at this grocery store I know so well because I worked there for two years carrying bags of food to trunks of cars, so here she is at this same place calling me before her dinner, a dinner I know will make her weak stomach sick, she is calling wicca to say she is only hours away and here I am with the suitcase in the corner and the door bolted firm now, here I am and there she is and what? What? I’m going to eat now. See you soon, sweetie. Fucking sweetie she calls me. Fucking soon. I do some dishes and pee and smoke a nervous cigarette on the fire escape then spot an oldish man across the street who I think I may know. But I cannot place him: old teachers, grandfathers, fathers, bus drivers, ticket takers, mechanics, bail bondsmen, criminals; his features swim about but do not attach themselves to a face I can identify.
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