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54 After the Boy Goes to Bed Maria Elena watches her husband disappear into the sofa like coins. His eyes, the hard shadow of yesterday. They love each other the way old houses lean into the sea. Not his eyes, but the gleam between woman and man, their two bodies, the press of a knucklebone, the soft hand resting on a knee—the way the brass in the kitchen lingers long after . . . There is still the thoughtless rattle between them. The ink stamp stain of a touched wrist. Maria Elena and Domingo. Their hands clasp together as they watch their rings turn blonder in the glow of the moon. ...

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