After I cut your hair, runningthe clippers back and forthuntil the tiles are littered with tuftslike grey lint swept from the drumof the tumble dryer, you pullyour T-shirt off and askif I can trim your chest hair. I oblige,and the whole time you gripmy roving wrist. Next Tuesdaywill be one year since they rana circular saw up your sternumand jacked you open,since they hooked you upto the heart-lun ...
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