twelve.

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    Growing up, Mel's third story apartment balcony overlooked a train station. She would sit up there for hours, full of daydreaming wander-lust, watching the train engines lull swiftly across their assigned tracks.

   Some nights, enticed by the routine air horn and wailing alarms of a railroad barricade, Mel would race on foot down to the station. She would stand on the edge of the tracks, the wind whipping through her bushy dyed hair and tugging at her body with surprisingly remarkable speeds, considering the easy pace the trains seem to keep on the open road.

    It was during one of these midnight explorations she met a man, named Calvin, with a spectacularly average physice but a marginally less than average mistress. In her presence he was a sculpture, an inventor, and a romantic.

    Sometimes Calvin had good days and he would take Mel and the mistress out dancing, woo them with odd presents like a piece of coal he found off the train track, or write them poetry under a sky frosty in winter starlight.

    She was young. Foolish to trust the mistress. Because  he was only good under her influence. And she was fickle indeed. He called her heroin.

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