she was sick, her skin xanthous with a love of pill and drink. her hands were always full and her eyes were always empty, her stomach growling and her face tired. in time her simulacrum became argentine, inebriation the feminine version of king midas; her touch became frigorific, like when night falls after a pure winter snow. even my bones were cold and ached when she glanced in my direction.
she gave an extemporaneous speech about how much she loves me, but all i could do was look away and muster a lie.
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