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An Afternoon

 As he writes, without looking at the sea,
he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble.
The tide is going out across the shingle.
But it isn't that.
No, it's because at that moment she chooses to walk into the room without any clothes on.
Drowsy, not even sure where she is for a moment.
She waves the hair from her forehead.
Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed, head down.
Legs sprawled.
He sees her through the doorway.
Maybe she's remembering what happened that morning.
For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him.
And sweetly smiles.

by Raymond Carver
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