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Love is what explains how, when most of the memories of a marriage to a man now sixteen years dead, though mostly not good, do not matter because there is the one memory that comes back to me every single morning, of someone making coffee for me. Perfect coffee, because the person making it knew exactly how I liked it. And then the cup brought to me and handed to me, no matter where I was, no matter what had transpired the day or night before, there would be the perfect cup of coffee. A palate cleanser for the marriage.
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