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Phillip Durrant

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Hester walked away.

Too late for anger, he'd lost her.

Mary watched from the window. She had exactly what she wanted, him totally emasculated.

Eyes closing, he turned toward the winter sun. Memories of the low, lazy drone of his Spit made him smile. Low and lazy, like a summer afternoon fuck. He could almost feel the vibration of the fuselage. An empty blue sky, and that glorious knowledge of who, and what you really were.

The past is a foreign country, apparently.

He shifted in his wheelchair, feeling rippled agreeably through his toes. He'd tell Mary of course, later.

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