I’m sitting in Harbor House waiting for Justin when the pain comes back. I squirm and shift my weight in the little booth near the door as the dull ache enveloping everything below my navel gets sharp and angular. Over at the other end of the diner the waitresses clink silverware and yell at the cooks as they get ready for the dinner rush. They haven’t been over to check on me in ten minutes, but that’s because I said I was expecting someone. Expecting someone, sure. Well I was, but now I’m expecting someone else. That should be funny, but it’s not.

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