What's wrong with that? How much? I said. You know that Jean-Claude won't let anything bad happen. I moved my hair to one side so the right side of my neck stretched clean. Not sickness.
I could see enough of his face to know that those closed eyes and parted lips weren't from pain. Not in the bedroom, but the bed, I said. He is dying, Anita, and nothing we can do will save him. I ground myself against him, but he was still trapped in the thong.
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