“Oh I’m fine, I’m fine.” The universes of frustration, pain, and unrequited dreams behind those words were infinite, but she said them anyway, each syllable a stubborn closet door keeping the ironing board of truth from springing free. Along the parched African soil, regiments of dung beetles rolled their Sisyphean shit balls, aimlessly, all-consumingly, the succoring shade of marula trees brief and incomplete. “Anyway,” she pressed on, “what’s happening with you?”




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