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Loving the Haberdasher He always wrapped his finery in tissue with the same precision he undressed you, folded your undershirt and placed it gingerly on the bed. With the lights off, it was easy to mistake his care for detail with one for you. What cannot be said, can be felt— each silence between two people teased into fabric and pressed into form with the hard kiss of steam. He taught you this.And how to stand in front of the mirror, fingering the fedora he left behind in a way that reminds you what he gave you, what he couldn’t—a tipped hat says both hello and goodbye.  ...

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