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62 Unnatural Habits I am growing too fond of living alone. My innate coarseness is spreading over this house. On his side of the kitchen table I pile mail to be read at leisure, of which I have none because leisure seems sinful in a climate of mourning. The dishes get washed then drain upside down for days. I become drawn to death by elegies of unhealthy eating, tempted toward burial in clothes I no longer love. One half of me has already dissolved. The remainder gives thanks for Christmas catalogues. I could become a cow-girl or a Victoria Secret slut. I could buy a Neiman-Marcus fourteen-carat-gold cover-up thing for $27,000. My damaged body is moving out into the world without me, trying on poses and colors while I watch from a distance, naked except for what I found in my closet the day after he died. I tried on everything but nothing fit, as if I had grown extra limbs. I was not in my garments. I had left myself. Now I go to the malls, upscale and downscale stores full of costumes. Seductive fabrics, styles so young I could become available. Get my heart broken all over again. ...

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