Cynthia spooned lowfat milk over granola as B.B. King’s "Crying Won’t Help You Babe" drifted in from the bedroom like an ambivalent male cat. She inhaled coffee steam and menthol smoke, scratched her varicose veins, and wiped the mascara from her eyes with the obituary page of the Times. Cynthia looked at the succulents on the fire escape and cursed the cheerful audacity of morning. A sapphire dress laid crumpled on the kitchen floor. It was Sunday morning and her boyfriend hadn’t called. All because she had been in a porno film, which was his idea in the first place.
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"Classic"
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