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Thank God, the work week was over. He couldn’t wait until he got home to open the sliding glass doors on to the deck that did not exist and pour himself a glass of wine. Even though he hadn’t seen her in many years, his wife would welcome him, maybe with some hors d’oeuvres and a kiss. They’d talk about Saturday: which of them would take the child they did not have to soccer and which of them would buy groceries. Sunday afternoon he’d watch football. Men pounding each other. His eyes would close. Finally, he would get some rest.

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