For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. When John’s parents weren’t home, they made love in his bedroom. This one too she read. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. "But we must be getting along if we are to lunch in the tower of the water-clock.
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