The little door would appear in my mind’s eye, except that now it was ajar.
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His eyes always astonish her. Iridescent blue, flecked with black.
Her husband was gone, two years later than she should’ve thrown him out.
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Hurricane Ian was bearing down on us. Jack wanted to stay and ride it out.
I was passed out on the floor, the TV on, when Ian made landfall.
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He showered, shaved, put on a clean shirt, then lay down to die.
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We were lying on the grass, sharing a joint. The sun was radiant.
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“Tell me that everything will be okay,” I whispered to the photo.
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