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March 23, 2007
The pockets of his pleated khakis are bulging with the letters of his go-to words. The jumble of Fs, Us, Ns, Is, Cs, and Es jangles against spare change and an errant mint, the end of a forgotten roll of Certs. The key to her apartment jabs his fingers.

"Take your 'go-to' words and go to hell!" she'd written in response to his bland email. She could tolerate and accept sparseness if the few words were more substantial.

His words were beige and mauve, on sale at the local Gap. She wanted fuchsia and purple, imported from an artisan boutique.