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Red flag

December 16, 2008

He pulled out her chair, then demanded a kiss, and she turned him down. His shirt was red as a bullfighter’s cape, and she wished he’d worn something less gaudy.

It was only later, with his forearm across her throat, his mouth hard on hers, that she realized she should have never gone out with him in the first place.

Her eyes darted to one side, then the other, looking for escape. Clouds passed overhead. Stars remained obscured. It was almost the darkest night of the year.

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