"So, you'll be writing another story that we live through?" she asks.
"No, it'll be real but it might seem like a story to those looking." I say, "And, by the end, you'll know that you can handle that kind of situation. And you'll know, unequivocally, that I will always find you, no matter what happens, not to take too much from Cash. Or, Reznor for that matter."
"Sorry, that sounded st--"
"No, it was good. Thank you, Rory."
"You really are my true love, Mary-Anne."
They walk inside, sit on the couch, they stare into each others eyes, "Open your mouth for me," I say. Mary-Anne opens her mouth. I run my finger along her tongue. Her eyes fill with passion and fulfillment at once. I begin to write in my mind like Kurt Vonnegut did in his early days. In this way our lives and memories are proliferated in eternities.
I suck Mary-Anne's saliva from my finger.
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