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Summary
John got home about ten minutes late to see Gale sitting barefoot on his porch steps, looking out at the lawn. It was a beautiful summer evening; Gale and Marge’s sensible car was in their driveway, and Marge was in Chicago for a conference. Their neighbors had mostly stopped setting off fireworks, but not completely. It looked like the cover of the Saturday Evening Post, except that Gale was pretty clearly fucking losing it.
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Bookmark Notes:
So so fucking good. Damn. Love it.