My friend used to ride the midnight bus so he could spend time with his dead sister.
He had been doing this for about five years, right after she was killed. Her boyfriend shot her one night ove
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when your hair tickled your shoulders and a widow in a floral
cardigan wrinkled her nose, patted your crown, and mis-
proclaimed, "such an interesting girl." It's the same carelessness
attending other glances, when lights merge to beams and starfish
mask as stones, grinding and bumbling surf through the foam.
"They can't run or walk," you sighed. "So they just dance."