We go to bed and I'm
going to be a gentleman here and leave it at that. We go to bed. Fade to black.
It's like old times. We've never been great communicators but we can move air.
Lo's familiar. I see her when she's not here, feel her. The shapes the contours,
the scar on her thigh from a curling iron accident; she's all there. We talk
with the air between us in grunts and fingers and nails. It's an argument. Then
it crescendos and fades, we have cigarettes and I pass out.
In the morning Lo's gone.
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