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Sunday Mornings By Aimee Stoddard She wanted him now only when she had to: Sunday mornings sometimes. She thought of his rolls on his skinny stomach and his bursted red veins and coarse white hairs and yellow stained teeth: Too many mugs of coffee. She feigned headaches and backaches and told him it was that time of month Again. He always turned his back and thought of her fine soft hair and stared at the shadows the covers made: Billowing ghosts dancing stationary with one another. |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007