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Oh, it stays on his face, all right, but without any discernible change in expression it shifts from a Gordo Cooper grin to a Pat Nixon grin. You donna holgate know the one: this frozen, pasted on, unconvincing donna holgate kind of travesty. And I realize what's donna holgate caused the transformation is his eyes. Clemmy isn't looking at me anymore. He's looking at himself in the mirror. I can just about guess what he's seeing, too. And there you have it, folks: Clement Goodbloode and I, hands intertwined, knees almost touching, looking like lovers for all intents and purposes but not thinking about love, no sirree. Thinking about ourselves, our little problems and vices, the state of our so-called souls. Something tells me I've seen this picture before. "Is my baby a little depresso today?" I say sweetly in the domestic patois we resurrect to needle each other with, interrupting Clemmy's little reverie with himself. "A little hungo? Still drunk?" Clemmy breaks away from the mirror slowly, like a sperm whale coming up for air.
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