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Against better judgment

November 20, 2008

He agreed, against his better judgment, to meet her for coffee. Outside, rain washed the street.

“Why did you take me to bed?” she asked. “You knew I’d fall.”

He took one cube of sugar from the bowl, stirred it into the tiny cup of espresso. He liked things concentrated and not too sweet.

“You knew where the door was,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to be unkind.”

He left her there staring at the residue in his cup, the lemon twist on the saucer.

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