Posted: April 6, 2016 in Uncategorized

She made an uneasy friendship with the pornography critic that supplied her with something to smoke and suggested casually over black coffee that memories, like fingerprints, can be burned away as a means of concealing one’s identity. “How will your ex-lover recognize you,” he postulated, doing knuckle acrobatics with his cigarette, “if he sees you on the street walking past the restaurant where you first kissed? Not wistful with shoulders slumped or stomping vengefully past like a tornado as you spit on the window. Just passing it like any hollowed-out building, an edifice holding nothing. Moving past it like a breeze, maybe only giving a half-glance to if any pastries in the window catch your eye.” He spoke of a half-truth, a theory more than fact. Something easy to agree with but difficult to practice. It was designed less to simplify her life and more to impress her toward a kiss. A kiss, and then…


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