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January 26, 2005
My 1:00 appointment, Mrs. Carlston, is late as always. Any minute now (1:08 on the dot), she'll come rushing in, pastel chiffon scarf floating behind her skeletal shoulder, hair as delicate as cotton candy and just as pink, white gloves fluttering in her hands like dove. As always, only her pale lipstick, smudged faintly outside the lipline, gives her away.

Because she wants me to think she is just an ever-tardy socialitite, I never tell her how impressed I am by her composure. Or how I can smell the jizz on her breath as soon as she enters the office.