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Between 7&3, 2020.
I hear her footsteps stomp down the stairs before the sun has even risen. I roll onto my stomach and cover my head with my pillow. The tea kettle is whistling and the candles are lit. I think again and begin to put on my socks. Entering the kitchen as I drag my feet, a second mug accompanies hers.
It is mine.
M.R.
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