I ask Sasha what it feels like to be in love and she laughs the way a hummingbird eats. She tells me love is like skydiving with a marshmallow parachute and laughs again, still hungry. Something in my silence must sound a little off because she turns to me with an inquisitor’s concern, dragging her eyes across my face as if it were a whetstone, her features sharpening with each stroke. When she asks me which end I want to start with, I tell her the middle. She sighs and says, darlin’, that’s just the beginning of the end.

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