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 The฀bag฀lady was฀a฀flea฀market฀find, an฀old฀chandelier,฀a฀fox-headed฀wrap, a฀gilt-edged฀book฀gone฀damp, a฀classic,฀a฀wreck฀with฀presence— Miss฀Havisham฀of฀Brush฀Street. Inviting฀as฀chapped฀lips, a฀late฀night฀at฀the฀morgue, a฀high฀pier฀with฀loose฀boards. But฀not฀dangerous. Still,฀she฀gave฀me฀the฀heebie-jeebies. That’s฀why฀I฀studied฀her.฀To฀forget฀her. Now,฀like฀bad฀genes,฀she’s฀back. Not฀déjà฀vu฀at฀all.฀More฀like a฀sharp฀word,฀a฀bad฀back, the฀familial฀past—subliminal฀trash persistent฀as฀the฀mothball฀reek฀of฀Auntie’s closet.฀You’d฀like฀it฀to฀let฀you฀go, but฀you฀are฀its฀breath, its฀canary฀in฀the฀mine, its฀reluctant฀gourmet. You฀taste฀it,฀it฀sustains฀you. You฀hesitate฀but฀it’s฀essential— the฀thirsty฀man’s฀dirty฀glass.  I฀drink฀her฀in.฀An฀aged Venus-on-the-half-shell, up฀to฀her฀elbow฀in฀a฀dumpster, hoping฀to฀add฀to฀her฀cache. Hope฀is฀a฀dirty฀rag. I฀didn’t฀even฀say฀hello. ...

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