Wednesday, two-thirty. It’s raining again. Man’s walking through a bookstore. He stops at the table with a “New Fiction” placard when he sees it. He’s frozen as soon as he realizes what it is. He’s staring right at it. He can’t believe what he’s looking at; thinking it’s not possible; thinking no fucking way; thinking she finally did it. Remembering she said she would. Remembering why. His heart rate picks up. His vision blurs. He’s shaking now, and sweat falls between his shoulder blades, leaving a dark spot like a bullseye in the middle of his back.
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