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“Mulder,” she says, too loud for the theater.
“Of all the gin joints,” says Mulder, cut out of the stars on screen. He’s looking at her like he had after he’d told her she should thank her lucky ones in a hospital bed, years back. It’s only been a couple days.
“Wrong movie,” she whispers.
“Nah.” He settles in beside her. He offers up a tacky Red Vine, which she accepts. “It’s definitely the right one.”
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Bookmark Notes:
death every afternoon
audries