One balmy Sunday morning sometime in September, I opened my eyes to him. It was then I came to understand the wordless conversation. We talked so many, many times before-but none of that seemed to compute anymore-it was just filler anyway. Our conversations really live in the soft rustle of the sheets while our limbs …

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One Sunday morning, dressed in the clothes my mother picked out for me, I squirmed my way into a booth at Friendly’s for family breakfast. The waiter asked what we would like to drink and my parents responded in unison, “coffee.” Now, I knew I couldn’t order coffee, but I could order something similar-something┬álike coffee. …

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