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Sheila

“Bitch why you hanging out with my boyfriend,” inquires Sheila.

“Ain’t my fault,” intones Kristy in the ancient dialect, “you can’t keep you man on a leash.”

Sheila nods. “I know you just di’in’it.”

The two bare carbon-edged nagamaki. Their seconds, standing back, quickly affix faux mascara tears.

“It’s on now!” says Kristy. “Uno! Dos! Tres! Catorce!”

They spring; they land. Sheila’s sleeve flutters earthward, but Kristy crumples.

The boy in question stands at the door in full burqa. “Bloody codger,” he whispers. “Why?”

Sheila kneels by Kristy to cradle her head. “Because sometimes,” she murmurs, “it bees like that.”

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