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pin into my hair above my left ear, her fingers lingering, adjusting, making sure it was secure the way a mother checks that everything is in place before she lets go.
There.
Then, in a voice that almost cracked but did not, because she was Eunice Park:
Not yet. Mascara.
At ten-thirty, I stood at the far end of a stone path along the cliff’s edge.
A wooden continue reading …
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