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A dead robin in the gutter, one torn wing spread toward the drain like an invitation to the underworld.
He stalked off. He’d drop the subject. I’d drop the subject. We would click back into place on the tracks, like it had never happened, a space I could inhabit like an actor. If I wanted to.
An accumulation of crap.
Kipple.
How much of Silvina didn’t exist because she didn’t want it to … and how much just wasn’t part of her life?
