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Tuesday 200 — #78

Every so often, an old tryst would wander the hallways of Nathan’s memory.

Macon was his favorite. A tough-as-nails biker from New Orleans — terrifying tattoos hiding a heart of gold. Protective of his friends, perhaps to a fault.

Viktor … the Russian boxer. Charming when he wasn’t snorting vodka. No telling what would happen if Viktor was around. Waking up in central lockup should’ve been a clue to cut that cord. Where was Macon when you needed him?

Laurie, the teen-aged wiccan. Scared to death of Viktor, she fucked him anyway. When the boys discovered her poems, it started again. Scarlet sets of parallel lines across her inner thighs. If only AJ hadn’t found out.

Ah, AJ … the compassion of Atticus Finch, the cruelty of Addison DeWitt. He told them Laurie was cutting. “For her own good,” AJ promised when they took her away.

Near the precipice of sleep, Nathan glimpsed the bit players from a nearly-forgotten movie: Violet and her opera; valium-addled Donald; transgendered Alison, who channeled Mata Hari.

Codependent no more, Nathan simply acknowledged their presence and waved them on.

Whatever he did, he didn’t tell Dr. Jenkins.

Four hundred volts hurt like hell.

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