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When he came over that day I wouldn’t get out of bed. He let himself in and sat down on the bed. Picked up my guitar and played that folk song to me. I cried quietly. I lacked the energy for anything else.

Love, he said to me. Love, he started, and I couldn’t make the distinction between the noun and the endearment term. Come, he said, and I crawled into his arms. I crashed into him.

He kissed me; held me through the night. Slowly, when the sunrise came so did I.

I love you, he said. I love you more than anything else. I nodded. I knew pas de viagra.

He lit my cigarette, held it for me. You’ll be okay, he said, we’ll be okay. In his arms, where I was no more than a child mourning her favourite character’s death, it was quiet and warm. He brushed my hair back. Kissed my temple. Held me when he sank again and again. Later, when I was much better, back in make-up, I told him I like it when we make love. He smiled.

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