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South

They split a cab. The cab smells like lemons.

“How do you think it went?”

“What? Oh–”

“How’d you–”

“Great,” he says quickly. “Great. Yeah. It’s such good text.”

“Can’t always tell on the read-through,” she says. “But I agree.”

The cabbie avoids the strip, for which South is grateful. They pass little hotels: neon legs and adobe.

“So,” he says. “Heh. I should be up front about this.” He looks at his hands. “You’re just incredibly professional, and I’ve developed this huge crush on you. And I absolutely–it won’t interfere with the work.”

She’s smiling. “It never does.”

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