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between a cannoli shop and a tailor. Wooden door. Hand painted sign.
Open Thursday. Italian holiday menu. I parked half a block down.
250 in the meter for an hour. I didn’t know how long we’d be. I lifted Caleb out of his car seat.
He was warm and limp and smelled like sleep. I carried him in. The hostess was young, black dress, hair braided up.
She had continue reading …
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