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33 The Cuckold in Autumn Raking leaves in sweats a size too big, my wife’s Pinto not in the driveway, when the neighbor’s smug son struts by with his second girlfriend of the season. I don’t lift my face from the wrinkled shards of yellow: a dried-up broken mirror reflecting my true, discarded self. They slide into the bucket seats of his Chevy. Click. Click. The engine won’t flip. She emerges, gaping zeroes in her sockets. He shuffles towards me, mumbles something about a jump. My loins ignite like a furnace. Welcome to my world, I think, attaching cables under the sprung hood, revving the juice. ...

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