It’s the least she can do. They go to his office party. She clutches his left forearm, smiling and nodding while conjugating Italian verbs in her mind. What, Honey? A drink, yes, thank you. As she lets go, she thinks about the words for left hand, la mano sinistra. Why am I always so tired? She sinks into a chair and closes her eyes. Thoughts like pinwheels, cul de sacs, lost mittens. She sees a man’s wrist encircled by a strawberry licorice whip. She feels twisted. Io amavo, tu amavi, noi amovano. Her mantra.
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