Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. From then on he was Ruth's dog. He asked me out two days ago and I thought, hell, why not?” Michelle answered. She drew her naked arms around herself. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. ” Michelle replied, still haunted by the image of her friend brutally amputating a man’s finger. "Time to dress for dinner," said Ruth from behind the curtain. An electric light flashed out from the wall.
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