![]() They were roommates, but spent many days, like this one, at Angie’s parents’ amply chambered burrow on the Upper West Side, where she had her own wing, like a rock star in a hospital: bed, bath, and a little someplace extra for the well-wishes to accumulate (Jean slept here). Angie rolled her eyes and picked at her lip. “I thought we were having a serious conversation!” cried Jean. Her companion looked as if she were made of gold and worshiping herself, the way she slipped her hands up and down her arms in a perfect, hungry rhythm. Jean insisted between tangents of laughter that she didn’t find it the least bit funny and privately wondered why Angie always wore such itchy sweaters when she was prone to worry raw every sensitivity imaginable. Angie said through convoluted gasps brought on by racing Adderall thoughts that Saint died at his desk so Jean could get his job. ![]()
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