“Last night I dreamed that your fingers were razors. You
sliced me open, cut me into a paper doll, and decorated me with ribbons and
bows. You used me as a bookmark. I was left there, smashed between the pages of
your favorite book and couldn’t get out.”
“Which book?” He asked the question absently as if to
suggest that it required no answer.
“A Moveable Feast.”
“Very interesting. Do you remember which page? Which
passage?”
“I don’t know the page. I think the passage pertains to an
ongoing conversation we always seem to have about life and love and human
frailty and the pieces we never seem able to put together.”
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