Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. My Mom is hell bent on having the biggest, most beautiful house in the neighborhood, my college education be damned. It’s not like we’re getting married. She played “Happy Birthday” for John, after which they plied her with a dozen requests.
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