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She’d been being kind, trying to get something through to me, but she must have seen herself reflected in my pupils, the way you do, or in my expression.
She picked up her coffee cup again and opened the back door.
“I’m going to run my life differently,” I yelled at her. “I won’t be like you!”
She looked back. She was furious, glittering. It was the cream of the joke. “You’re going to be just like me,” she said. Then she pitched the cup out onto the concrete walk. It smashed, coffee underneath the splinters, and she walked out the door, down the steps, right through the smashed cup.

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