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In the dark of this June night I am awake. I reach beside my head and feel my fingertips trace a three-inch tear in the pillow-case. These things happen. I sigh. Sheets grow thin. Fresh rags for the studio. I tiptoe to the bathroom to put cream dead center on my sunburnt back. When my husband went to live in California years ago what to do my itchy back was a concern. I felt disproportionately clever when I bought a long handled loofah. With the streetlight streaming through the floor height bathroom window it occurs to me that the loofah will be handy should I outlive Jake. The thought tears painfully at my chest as I scratch my own back. Becoming an old lady and living alone is decreasing

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