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May 13, 2005

Michele: Untitled

When Evan was done, there was remorse. It lasted long enough for him to drag her body down to the lake; to cleanse the blood from her face and her hair; to dry her hair in the sun and comb the flecks of blood from it; for him to bury her in the dirt, whispering memorized lines about dust to dust.

By the time some wandering kid carved his own initials into the stone marker months later, Evan had forgotten what he did or who Elizabeth was or why there was a silk, white slip slung over his bedroom chair.

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