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The Girl

The girl on the porch swing looks up from her Kate Chopin and blinks. “Mister J. T.?” she asks.

“Don’t have to be formal, the Girl,” he says.

“I suspect I do.” She nods at the long black guitar case. “A new accoutrement?”

“No,” he sighs, “just the only woman I’ll ever love again.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you come here, Mister J. T.?” She’s trying not to clench the book.

“I had all this sexy left over,” says the Justin, and hitches up his shirt just enough to pull the red vial from his waistband. “Thought you might want it back.”

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