As I sit across the wide wooden table, slightly wobbly, with
“world music” of some kind emitting from corner speakers, my friend holds out her hand, lays her palm up, crisp milky white against waxed mottled mahogany, and I take it. She places her other hand atop our pile of digits,
cocooning them, warming them as tears make unbidden trails through the
invisible down of my cheeks and under the hollow of my jaw.
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