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Perfect Stranger    (Continued)

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When we parted, as we undoubtedly would, he'd hear my ghost whispering to him each time a song came on the radio using 50s progression. I wouldn't hear it, but he would, and I'd haunt him forever.

He should be an artist. In a week, a month, a year, he'll be a shadow of a memory blemishing my once-whole heart, but I'll leave the bigger scar behind. There will be galleries filled with his works, and one day a painting will call to me, beckoning with the crease in its eyes, and there I'll be, oil on canvas, sfumato cleverly hiding me. Down the way I'll find my ears, my mouth, but one – just one – will wear my expression, without anything else of mine, as if to say: “Here, I've found another just like you.” But I won't remember him, and at the close, I'll politely ask the name of the artist and nod thoughtfully, the first name already vanished and the last name soon following.

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