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Holly

The street’s washed out with dead snow, sick and tired of asphalt, salted and dirtied into sullen drifts. They clump down the melting sidewalk with hats on and coats flapping open. All three of them steam like dragons.

“You have no argument!” snaps Diane.

“And you see everything in black and white,” says Rose, affecting Zen.

“That’s still not an argument. Anyway, shades of gray aren’t any better.”

“I know, Diane. That’s why I try to see things in full color.”

“Rose,” says Diane, “that doesn’t even mean anything.”

“You’re both cigarettes,” mutters Holly, and kicks an offending chunk of ice.

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