She could not help but admit that she liked being smiled at and addressed in the hallways by hordes of friendly faces. “Because I know for a fact that she was having sex with Gary Rothko during homecoming Freshman year and she let him pork her up the ass. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. He might miss at this distance. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. In one grave, mind.
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