Dena came around to the driver side, wearing the maternal look that meant I had a lecture coming, usually prefaced with a quote from her favorite poet, Rumi. “That which is false troubles the heart, but truth brings joyous tranquility,” she said. “And what does that mean, love?” “It means you miss this girl. Don’t pretend you don’t. You’ll feel better for being true to your feelings.” She rested her hands on the open window. “I don’t like to talk about your schedule, you know that.” I nodded. ‘My schedule’ had become a euphemism for the time I had left. The ‘gallery opening’ was the finish
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