Sauced

He leans against me and rests his head on my shoulder. I try to imagine that it’s just sticky tree sap smeared across his cheeks and shirt like when we’d swing from the gums out the front of Grandpa’s place. I try to imagine that he’s just a little sauced after a big win.

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Coming Apart

‘Seven, eight, nine,’ he mouthed silently. From the first time he laid his hand to it, he had been counting himself off. ‘Forty-one. Forty-two.’ It wasn’t a race. It wasn’t a competition. It wasn’t even obsessive compulsive; it was just what he did – like having a storyline that accompanied the act.

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