Fat Chance was waiting at the entrance to her heart. He wouldn’t let me pass. “I was sent,” I protested. “So were we all.” “I brought flowers.” “Is it love,” he scoffed, “to tear at the breast?” “But the scent. The colors . . .” “I see blood,” Fat Chance said. “I meant no harm.” “I see a fool.” “Is it foolish,” I pleaded, “to love?” Fat Chance smiled. “You carry your love like flowers.”
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