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The Ballerina

All afternoon I lay on the couch, staring at the picture on her wall: a ballerina sitting, lacing her slipper, a raised leg, a bended knee. Then her key turned in the lock. I pretended to be asleep, but she’d seen my dangling feet in socks. She put down her purse. In a while I followed her into the bedroom. The curtains were drawn. The room was dark and cool. She removed her stockings, then everything else. Left her dress on the floor. Her pale body seemed the source of that coolness. “I’m tired,” she said. “Let me sleep.”


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