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When leaving he hovered over me for several minutes, bending on old knees to squeeze my shoulder as I stared at 200 our shoes. We were both wearing Allen Edmunds. His were spotless. ABOUT 8 AND A 200 HALF YEARS AGO. The cigar-chomping Bulldog clock in Rudys 200 struck midnight, both paws pointing at the 12. Looks like its payday, crowed Scott, wielding a pair of scissors he must have been hiding in his backpack. My best friend smirked as he gnashed the blades in mock snips. 16-6 to 18-5. Wed wagered over individual won-lost records. 5 DAYS AGO. My firm named Jeremy Stein its new head analyst for the Singapore office. I quickmailed my secretary that I would be leaving early for the day and to say I was feeling ill. Her thinly disguised words of consolation blipped onto my screen. Jeremy was a special case he grew up in Hong Kong and spoke Cantonese. Ted, Arthur and Vanessa, all more senior, were the ones who should be upset. Even reading, I could hear her screwing up the Rs.
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