He pulled out an old—but new for me—dusty book from his briefcase. Books belonging to the Soviet orchestra library...
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I’m sorry. I’ll miss you terribly. You look at me hurt…
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Perhaps my sorry state tugged on this woman's strings of motherhood and allowed her to look upon me as just another uncomfortable human. There was a call to nurture and I allowed her to play mum for just the briefest of instances - so fast, if you weren't looking, you'd miss it.
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