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Portrait of Myself in First Marriage My underarms are rashed. The kind of accident where the seatbelts do more injury than the crash. Blood on my neck. I wave a waitress away, "Honestly, it's okay I cut myself in the men's room, shaving." My handwriting is an imitation of my dad's when I write a fake plate number and phone on a prescription pad. I'd just wanted to go to the Steakhouse and eat fried appetizers alone. I pull out into the strip mall night, all the neon, comatose. I come home, she's been reading the page on my typewriter. That's how she knows I'm a liar. I can't argue, I tell her I'm sleeping off a concussion.
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