He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. Eating him while he was at the end of a heroin binge left her sleepy and dazed. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust.
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