Fiction | July 17, 2011

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Why had Amy gone off for a walk? He knew that her conference—an international gathering of Emily Dickinson scholars—did not begin for another day. Was she angry at him for sleeping so late? The night before, she had quickly brushed her teeth, worn her old nightgown and fallen sleep, but he had stayed awake, jazzed by the long flight from Boston and the taxi ride through the strange city. He’d moved in close to Amy, wanting to feel the curve of her long body, but she’d muttered in her sleep and turned away. Sleep, when it came for him, had been a series of jumbled dreams.

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