She tapped me on the shoulder. I was at the deli counter buying cheese, a pungent parmesan. Remember me. Rosalie. My mind commutes, a distant face. Of course I do. She asks how’s the kids? the job? the sort of things we measure time by. We nod goodbye I collect my cheese encased in a neat white coffin of paper line up at the checkout together. I say do you still live in town? Time is bumping against us in the queue. She answers still got the house. Don’t live there though. Lance died. Cancer. Did you know? I felt that wrench, that fault line of pain that dislocation a skier would feel tumbling out of control. I’m a lost soul she says in a voice that staggers then she slips away as I pay for my cheese.
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