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54 Menelaus was the kind of guy who could eat with gusto and never grow fat. Like the past. Wiry. Like dreams of the piano tuner’s wife. Able to hoist, antlike, many times his mass. I fell for his wife, not hard enough to break a rib, but still. At parties, she would perch on the edge of a couch, sip sloe gin fizzes, carefully slice open a feeling, and read it out loud— her voice like dusk rising to claim a field of troops. ...

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