Clip out; hair tumbles down. Lie back against the patio slats. Warm autumn sun pushes against my black tee, pinning me to the ground. Fold arms over sun-shy face skin.
Turn head sideways. Watch. Ask:
"Do you see our relationship as complicated, or simple?"
He turns a page of the newspaper.
"Both."
Another page over.
"How about you?"
Pause.
"Both."
Pause. Cigarette smoke rolls my way; he bats it grasswards.
"Something else we've got in common, then."
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