One slid across theplatform on the seat of his pants, bringing up short, his stomach and face smashing into a tiled wall. ” She went to snap-purses and returned. “ Shhh, honey, it’ s okay,” I murmured. “ Just a friend.
Then why did I think of him as a crustacean,as a pitted fossil, as a gray and wasted relic? It was the air of fatality, of course. And I’d lived with him and my mother, off and on,for those fifteen years, but I never really knew him, or even much about him. There’ s always another one warming up in the bullpen as the one on the mound begins to tire and keepsmissing the strike zone. Wacked; we’ re talking whacked here.
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