If James could go back to the day they met, shouting to each other across the marsh between their apartment buildings, dusk and cattails coloring his first memory of her, he thinks he would have asked her then.
He no longer remembers the way she spoke, the way they all spoke, so when he imagines her response it sounds something like this:
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This is for a story, entitled Gloves, that I've been working on-and-off for going on three years. It's a story of James' relationship with the woman with the gloves. I hope this revision brings me closer to the final draft of this.
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