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August 14, 2015

Fire Girl

She slept on the kitchen floor.  Eyes tear-streaked, her eyeliner and mascara smudged around her eyes. Her hands were dirty, and her arms, though skinny, were well muscled, as though she’s seen some hard work. There was something interesting about her face that made me linger longer than necessary–considering the reason I had come into the kitchen in the first place, due to the alarmingly loud beeping from the smoke detector. I found the cause of the wailing: the stove was on, and a dishrag near the stove had caught fire. What the in the Hell…? Stepping over the figure, I quickly put out the fire and squinted at the microwave, shivering in only my boxers. 5:30am. On a Sunday. Wonderful…

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