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She finished her walk around the victory lap, and headed back inside to drink her new potion: club soda and tequila. She had stolen it from him. Her mom would call eventually. He wouldn't.
Mother would ask, "so, how is Noah. Did he like us? Did he say anything?"
"Oh, I'm sure he liked you, but he didn't say anything. I think he's politely breaking up with me."
"what did you do?"
"oh, I can't even imagine. I'm sure it was just a matter of time."
"You probably tried too hard instead of being yourself."
"well, that can likely be the case."
"Do you like my haircut?"
She poured more tequila in the ice and felt like a 90-year-old alcoholic who was "lucky" to make it this far. She was so tired of being heavy.
What could she have done differently? Could she have been more effervescent? sharper of wit? Could she have demanded more sexual positions?
It didn't matter now. The dye was cast.
Whatever damage was done.
It wasn't like she could have been any different than exactly the way she was.
As if that was any comfort.
The sun set. The baby deer was still trapped in the backyard furtively drinking water at night.
She was alone again, and there was no comfort you could give her.
She only wanted one glance.
Not yours.
Thank you though.
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