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In by Wyatt on January 28, 2009 at 12:16 am

She sang in the shower. Carly Simon, Joni Mitchell, Nora Jones. He jammed in the earplugs. Medium size, EZ-foam, one buck.  Stinging beams slipping stealthily between stacked shutter blinds spring her baby blues open but bind his stubborn eyes shut. Lo – watch the Dream open them. Hung with calculated flair across the walls are the rank trappings of social success and plastic-swiped happiness. Time measured in toaster chinks and Coffeemate drizzles teeters forward, tripped up on crumbs, grounds, cursory glances, curt greetings. Sleep well? Yep. Be back at six. That’s fine.


How pleasant.


I’m seeing someone else. Me too. 


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