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its own kind of trying.
She was holding a paper grocery bag. Through the side, I could see a wine bottle and what looked like pastries from the bakery on Elm Street.
The bakery we had gone to together, she and I, for years.
She had brought my pastries, my bakery, my rituals, borrowed and weaponized as props.
“We just wanted to talk,” Daniel said. “No lawyers,continue reading …
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