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Mavis recalls that feeling of being in love, but she can’t recapture it fully. She knows what it did to her body — the flutter in her chest, the hot blush in her cheeks, the singular obsession for a certain man’s touch. But it is a memory, only as clear as a scene in a film, not nearly as sensory as it once was. And so, she doesn’t crave it. Not like she craves chocolate chip ice cream or potato chips or macaroni and cheese.

She has a friend who still falls in love. Every few months, a new man catches Kathi’s eye and she becomes flighty as a school-girl. She rushes out for a facial, for a mani-pedi, for fresh make-up. Her bedroom becomes strewn with discarded outfits that she has judged lacking in her full-length mirror. She prattles on about the current man, describing each in terms of movie stars: Paul Newman, Cary Grant, Robert Redford. Mavis sits in the corner armchair, listens to Kathi’s delusions and thinks about cake.

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