As we adjusted the painting, her shouting directions and me vainly trying to follow them, I had a sudden blinding flash of clarity about our entire relationship.
I think she only went out with me because sometimes from the side I look a little like Steve Martin and she really loves all his movies.

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With eyes closed, languidly resting against the chaise, anticipating her companion’s next move; she hoped for something sweet, whispered flirtations, invitations for a rendezvous or four, and the indirect promise of a romance.
With eyes open, lids heavy, body leaning against hers, showering sweet kisses along her neck, and across her jawline, he hoped that his camouflaged words of sensual promise also conveyed to her the promise of more to come; a future.

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I look at the clock and realize it is 12:07 as I scream and yell, blood dripping down my arms as she sinks her nails deeper and deeper into them. I wake up thankful it is only a dream. My heart starts to pound again after I read the time on the clock, 12:06.

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After leaving my mother’s funeral and find out that know one has found her body, we come home and I tell my father that I’m hungry, then he tells me supper will be ready in 20 minutes, 20 minutes later I come into the kitchen, and sit down. My dad lifts the lid of the dish he has made, it looks like chicken legs, so I take a bite, and right after I do my fathers says, “Doesn’t you mother taste great?”

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