"and her work was like the way she moved her body, used her hands"
Her work was like the way she moved her body: cold and rigid and well-dreamt. When he read her turgid prose on Post It notes on the Frigidaire it compelled him to reach for a PBR. They made coffee three times daily, mainly for the scent, and she whistled out the greenleaf and wrote her endless promises to the pay-to-pub, PJ-clad, while he smoked Marlboros on the stoop as if waiting for a Greyhound. The dogs would bark when the cat clawed the Christmas tree or shit in the floor. Sometimes, sighing and craning, she would reach for a cigarette and hang it between her lips unlit. Where lines end they end without asking.
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