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She glanced down at her mail while waiting for his reply.Jerome was arriving home from work. He worked in the accounts receivable department at his father's investment firm.Jerome felt depressed because a gal at work had rejected him for a date. This was not uncommon. His disability was a turn off for most women. They generally looked at him as either a friend, or brother, or someone they could mother. Very few considered him dateable. The few that did were more interested in his condition than in him.As he rolled down the street in his depressive funk, he saw Donna standing by the door, waiting for him. His mood brightened. Donna was a very pleasant lady and always smiled at him when they passed in the halls.When she asked about his day, Jerome decided to take a shot. Pulling out his iPad, he replied using the voice app, and said "Fine, thanks for asking. Would you like to join me for dinner tonight? I don't want to go out, but don't want to be alone either. We could get to know. Not much more conversation breaks out along the way. Many more minutespass, and you begin to wonder how much further could the drive be. Shenotices your impatience, and reaches into her coat to take out a bottleof pink-colored water. She takes a sip, and then offers you some. Youare a bit parched, and some water would certainly quench your thirst.You take the bottle, glancing at it momentarily. "Pink?" you think toyourself, "Must be something fruity." Not wanting to be rude, youuncap the bottle and take a swig. It tastes sweet. It really is quitegood. You take another sip. And another. And another. As soon asthe bottle is empty, you realize that you must have been thirstier thanyou thought. You pass the empty bottle back to the girl, apologizing,but she doesn't seem to mind.As you approach a traffic light, she points to a small shop across theintersection. Looks like an old bookstore, which she explains has beenin her family for generations. There's an apartment.
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This is the story of how I did that and how I found the only man in America who wouldn’t want me. The only man in the Western Hemisphere. The only man on the planet. He took photographs of me. I don’t usually let magazines take photographs of me. I refused to go into modeling when the pressure was on, when I was fifteen. But on this occasion it was different. A collection of designer dresses was to be auctioned for charity. And one of the dresses had belonged to my mother. We met on the rocky bed of the Thames at low tide. It was gray and very windy. I said I didn’t usually wear this kind of dress. But it was for charity. “One knee on the pebbles,” he said. “I don’t usually take this kind of photograph. But it’s for charity.” The dress blew up around my ears. My legs. Did I mention my legs? Sometimes I think my legs have a life of their own. Sometimes I eat a lot of cake to see if they’ll notice me. It doesn’t work. My legs go on doing their own beautifully defined thing. I beat the.

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