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Roxanne

Roxanne plays with the ice in her drink. She’s in a bar tonight. No, a tapas bar.

The bartender comes up to hmm. Do they have those in tapas bars? Anyway, a guy comes up to her and leans over her table. His nails are trimmed neatly; his shirt is olive. No, maroon.

She looks up from her gin and Coke to what? Why not? Fine. She looks up from her Jack and Coke, following the olive sleeve up to the glowing point of his cigarette–or no, it’s in his other hand. Up to…

Okay, wait. I’m trying to remember.

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