November crisps puddles and steam rises vertically from air conditioning. I cut a slice of pie from the window’s wet and look out onto the woodworm streets. At the corner a girl in cut-offs bitches at her boyfriend and shivers with arms braided across her chest. I open the window to clear the wet. Cold air flushes with the girls voice, ‘This is the last time.’ The boyfriend’s laugh is like mud. He knows it’s a lie, her hunched shoulders know it’s a lie, even the blood condensation that pours from the wound in the window knows it’s a lie.
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