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She thought best smoking in bed. Up until then you'd really think she needed you. Of course the sex was great. But afterward, she would smoke and do her best thinking. You could not touch her then. Not even if you wanted to.

Afterward, she would stick her fingers in her fucking handbag. Let me tell you about this handbag. This handbag messed everything up. This handbag was tres chic. This handbag was black vinyl circa 1963 and when we made it, this handbag was always on the floor. Always on the floor in the same exact spot. So she could reach for her cigarette and do her best thinking. I support smoking and thinking, that is not the problem. But this handbag, it was always left in the exact same spot. This was not wild abandon, this was clinical. Suddenly, I did not feel so smart no more. To be honest; I felt sick. I've learned to deal with that. She would finger, finger, finger, finger, finger the handbag until a cigarette came out. Then she'd smokeit/thinkbest. She would reach down towards the floor and stick her fingers in the handbag. It would take longer than expected. It would give me time to do bad thinking. I would think bad thoughts like, "her back is like a swan neck; white and long," just the silliest things like that. Never, not if I were the last prince of Siam, would she buy that shit. I knew it, even William Strunk knew it. I AM POSESSED BY THE VOICE OF HER FACE, "Look Peter, look how lovely I am! Am I not oh so very lovely? Am I not, Peter? Am I not?"

Yes. Yes Eyglo you are, you are. And she was. In that face there was a slight reflection. If you looked real hard, I mean really close; in this reflection you could see the vague outline of a nametag. It read, "HI MY NAME IS REPLACEABLE."

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