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The Hopechest of John P. Riggs: Chapter 1; Part 2

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the smell of a foreign cigarette and her melodious French accent are the only things I remember from our first encounter. it wasn’t until a week later that I realized her full resemblance to Mary – sitting at the counter at the seedy cafe, unpretentiously sipping her espresso. I’m not sure whether it was the way that she held on to the tiny cup (with both hands), or the way that she puckered her lips after each drink. but the poetry in her eyes was the same. and the sway of her hair induced a similar trance.

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Written by burrben

April 6, 2011 at 6:39 pm

Posted in fiction

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