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“I fisting can’t leave my wife.” “We’re meant to be together. It’s karma. Can’t you feel it when we make love?” “That’s $4.58?” the checkout girl says. I hand her a five as Maggie says, “You know we have something special.” “We fisting do, but I’m staying married.” The checkout girl hands me the change and says, “Have a Happy Thanksgiving.” “Happy Thanksgiving,” I say, making a mental note to never set foot again in this supermarket with fisting Becki. Maggie waits until we are outside and standing on Seventh Avenue to say, “You think I’m only good enough for a once-a-month thing?” “No, but, I was clear when I placed my personal ad in the Village Voice that I was looking for a mistress, no-strings situation.” “So, I’m a fucking slut?!?” “Lower your voice. You’re making a scene.” A woman passing the supermarket with her daughter picks up her pace. A nurse walking across Seventh Avenue from Methodist Hospital across the street stares at us and shakes her head. “I’m not making a scene,” Maggie shouts.
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