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We screamed over coffee, her hair flying from the wingtips of her shoulder-blades to slap our avid faces and the edges of the patient table. Her coffee - little more than brewed cinnamon, sugared sludge – developed lazy ripples as the table met her soft fists.
Ah, but last year: spent loving the edible gestures of morning anniversaries- a mango in my coffee cup, a single chocolate strawberry on a white napkin, or grandma-kitchen apple pie between her fists and my excuses for forgetting.
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