The self versus the package.

So….there I was at the grocery store, in my gaming t-shirt and my oversized shorts and metallic sneakers and septum ring, agonizing over the fact they were out of my favorite coffee, when in walked a lady completely done up: bleached, styled long hair, fake tan, loads of makeup, gym arms, short skirt, and what I call hoof heels — the kind that have a platform sole and a spike heel. She looked at me, and I looked at her, and I wanted to smile and acknowledge that there’s a million ways to be women, but she somehow gave off a “closed” vibe so I contented myself with wondering how and why she wore such vile shoes. And then she grabbed a gallon of milk and lumbered out the door to her giant ugly car and I thought, “This, ladies and gentlemen, is the anti-me.”

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So now I’m starting to reference

past dreams in my dreams about the two of them. “Wait, I dreamed about you,” I hear myself saying in the new dream. The same feeling of loss is there, perhaps magnified this time as they move off into their lives, and I know they’re really gone.

The house is sold, the sisters separated. Is A. dead in this version, or the last? I can’t sort it out.

It was all so long ago. Why does it continue to haunt me?

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