‘This is a starter house,’ Karen was fond of saying.
I’d been living here for over a month now at 3629 Tilden Street, New Haven. Three months, give or take a week or so, from the day I saw the People magazine photograph of Michael with his new girlfriend—lovers arm-in-arm, his ear doubly pierced, a tiny gold hoop and diamond stud through it. It was one of the side photos on that week’s cover, and something of the vaguely familiar must have caught my eye as I waited in line at the register at the General Store.
The cover story was on “The New Glamour Couples,” or something similarly stupid. I could only glance at it furtively for the few minutes I had to wait while the man in front of me paid. I couldn’t buy the damn thing, people around here knew we used to live together; it would…
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