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February 1, 2008

Jeff R.: The Meeting Place

There is a table, sitting in a dry gulch in Mojave Desert. The four legs are petrified wood, the table a round, flat piece of black volcanic rock. There are eighteen chips in the stone, each telling the tale of a careless, dramatic gesture made with mug in hand.

Once, about every fifty years, a freak storm sends enough water to fill the creek-bed to a couple inches depth. That is when they meet, and decide important things, like earthquakes and snowfalls and who will find their one true love.

They have been meeting since the first lie was told.

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