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episodes The hands give it away—hard-felt, carried in fistfuls. Pins or jaggedness, or there’s always something—as in happening, going, about to go wrong. If there’s a way out, it’s through the dirt—as in in it, underneath the nails, nervous grit of the brain, rooted. : : : Holding it, there was a guiltlook , sideways. Perhaps in the tilt of the head, shoulders exposed, the weirdly blushed hesitation worn before answering. Or that by looking in the mirror could answer for you. : : : It’s the shop that makes you feel good, being there in the middle of all the new, untouched merchandise. As if what comes and goes will forever be this way—needing broken in. 50 : : : After a while, the steps had to be done a particular way—hushed, kept in check. So even a phone call became a test, a removal from what the soul wished for. No redress, not any one clue. : : : Disappointment comes dandied up in your Sunday best. Stockings bunched at the knees, patent shoes buckled, smart— a teacherly click click on the tile. Not that it could be avoided, not that you had anything to do with it. : : : When the hands lock into fists, the skin pays— tautness to slack, loss of restraint. As if the excess could be wrung out, replaced by another another. Vigilant. You weren’t left with much better. 51 ...

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