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Love is strange,
isn't it? It's a killer. Tonight when I went to the restaurant where
Jessica used to work, the way I did last week and the week before,
I finally asked for news of her. She's fine. I think a part of me
is like a plant flattening against a window pane, in search of the
sun. It wasn't until on my way home, with pieces of steak for the
dogs, that I realized the plant is actually inside me, and all it
really needs is rotation away from the sun. Then suddenly I saw
the road outside, and the night, and realized, along with the instant
of the thought, I had just learned how to do that.
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