The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. ‘Possibly,’ he said. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. Perhaps it was loneliness. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face.
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