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My writers notebook in my satin evening bag sits untouched. I stand apart from the polished, pore less, people today murmuring about soccer schedules as well as the Indian summer had been having. I try to join in, talk about my dress-a vintage number I thought was remarkable in the store. I drink coffee to stay alert. I scan clusters of individuals trying to find my husband. Instead, I spot a woman. This is the woman that biologists envision when classifying higher life forms and the type high school seniors rank for Prom queen candidates (which by the way is essentially the same system but the high-schoolers labels are meaner far more memorable. No mnemonics needed). She is a queen bee. Shes the slender taper on the top of a grand piano. And, lovely though she is, the lacquer that covers the classified documents that make her real, leave me nothing to talk with her about.
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