TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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M and I broke into the warehouse across the street. After carefully treading our way through the cavernous ruin and dusty construction, we had a brown-bag supper before his departure for San Diego, cold turkey sandwiches with canned cranberry sauce, merlot imbibed from Dixie cups. Filtered by the rain, our conversation was threaded by a fragile, almost-too-late peace.