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The Terrible Of Some Suppose you met him at a church bazaar rather than a bar. Or say the end of him came sooner than expected, like a month into your courtship rather than nine years. Suppose those two toddlers never happened, the one on your hip, the other on your hem. Imagine the rough of his hands came from carving wood or building furniture, a working man's trade instead of fist fights with strangers on the street. Strangers with half the sense to glance at you, maybe taking in an eyeful and pissing him off. Pretend the accident was just an accident and not a premeditated tap of the brakes on such an icy road so late at night in the pitch black storm of sky, the clouds so heady and thick, you couldn't see the stars the moon or light.
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