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She wakes noisily, throwing the blankets aside with a histrionic flourish, and lies heaving for air on the beach of crumpled sheets. With each shallow gasp, blanched flesh jiggles to and fro, the forming goosebumps almost indistinguishable among the blotches of broken blood vessels and the spayed fractals of stretchmarks. Women become so ugly as they grow old, and yet they expect you to be always treating them as if they were still sixteen and charming, as if their ankles were still slim enough to perch slenderly over stilettos, as if their thighs were taut enough to resist a pinch on their own. Once, when her chin was still single and did not yet need depilatory creams, he used to love to tilt her head up and kiss the live thrumming v-shape at the head of her throat. These days he settles for a quick smack of lip to lip, no tongue, pulling away swiftly to adjust his tie and smile into the mirror. Yes, he thinks, the years have treated him better. She raises her body from the bed with a grunt and pulls a flowered dressing-gown on, reaches for a hairbrush and pulls it through her stringy hair. When she dresses, she does so with much care but little style, and he stares intently into the financial news to avoid calling out critiques on the combination of red and pink. There is a clink, and he looks into his palm: a wedding band identical to his own has landed there. Her face is serene. For some reason, he expected tears. "Goodbye." She says, and carries her own bag downstairs to the waiting car.
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