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Adeline has always loved to watch him work, to see the figures take shape, as if they were there all along, but hidden, like pits in the center of a peach.
successful theft is an anonymous act. The absence of a mark.
If a person cannot leave a mark, do they exist?
“Where did you go?” he asks, and she spears another bite of food and holds it up between them.
Fleabag who
He is full of roots, while she has only branches.
A pink and green thing in the shape of a lucha libre from a trip she took to Mexico City last month.
Pink goes good with green
“To twenty-nine,” says Bea, raising her glass.
TWENTY NINEEEEE
History is a thing designed in retrospect.
“Even if everyone you met remembered,” Luc says, “I would still know you best.”
And this, he decides, is what a good-bye should be. Not a period, but an ellipsis, a statement trailing off, until someone is there to pick it up.
He is a dozen things at once. He is lost and scared and grateful, he is sorry and happy and afraid.
She peels back the cover, turns past the title to the dedication. Three small words rest in the center of the page. I remember you.
That kiss, like a piece of long-awaited punctuation. Not the em dash of an interrupted line, or the ellipsis of a quiet escape, but a period, a closed parenthesis, an end. An end.
