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34

 

 

 

 

34

 

 

Look, I hardly knew the woman. I mean, I barely remember her now.

Clementine Elizabeth Bough.

I once saw a man on a jet-ski shatter through a wave. That’s how thinking about her feels. Careening. Crash. I wondered how different it would be if the wave was a brick wall. How he would look on the other side. Remembering her is a lot like this.

The man who came to visit that night, his name was Lance. Lawrence. Something.

“Your momma’s friend Lance is coming by,” Momma said. She was smiling at herself in the spare bathroom mirror, her makeup bag opened up in the sink. Bottles and tubes and shiny plastic pencils. It was the bathroom with ‘the best light’ she said, softening the color of her cheeks and darkening her mouth. She couldn’t stop smiling, her hands trembling, smearing mascara on her cheek.

She’d brought the radio in with her, and she was listening to something with acoustic guitars and high voices, a steady beat. Somethin
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