“You could… come too…,” he finds his mouth saying, even though his heart struggles against it. He doesn’t want to hear the answer. Doesn’t get one anyway. Benji stands up and starts to put his clothes on. The bass player sits up, lights a cigarette, smiles sadly. “You could move away from here, you know. There are other lives, other places.” Benji kisses his hair. “I’m not like you.” When Benji heads out into the last snowfall of the year and the door closes softly behind him, the bass player thinks how true that is. Benji isn’t like him, but he’s not like the people who live here either.
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