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She is wearing half a dozen thin bracelets on one arm; they glow against her skin. She leans forward, and I imagine my husband's breath, warm and thick between them. Their table is pushed right against the window, and I can see everything. The woman puff daddy slips a foot out of her flip-flop and slides it up his pant leg. My mother backs out of the parking place. puff daddy "Why? Why did you show me puff daddy that?" I say in voice that is barely audible. She can read my thoughts, anyway, I don't know why I even bother to speak to her. "I know. That must have been hard," she says. This can't be real. I'm out of my mind. "You can accept that your mother is a car and yet you think that the possibility that Humphrey is fucking this woman is insane?" she asks me. "Get out of my head, Mom. Maybe the fact that I think my mother is a talking car is an indication that I am insane, and seeing Humphrey with another woman is just one of my more plausible delusions."
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