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He steps out like a politician on a small-town tour, taking a shywife quick look in his mirror, touching up shywife his hair with a wet thumb, preparing to encounter the citizens. "My God, Mom, my prince has arrived." "Huh?" I imagine her at the kitchen table, fanning herself with a page of the Trib. "Carter's there?" "No! When have I ever called Carter a prince? Whatever -- I'm kidding -- Look, I gotta go fill the barbecue sauce bottles." "Okay, okay," my Mom sighs. "Take shywife a pregnancy test." "Mother! I'll be fine. Don't start planning a baby shower, okay? I'm not even married!" Silence on the other end of the line. I'm holding my breath, realizing what I've said. "I love you," she says, finally. "I love you, too." My eyes follow the prince as he walks, moving in and out of the slivers of light cast across the parking lot. It's like a cartoon: with each flicker of illumination he looks more like a superhero, approaching me in a series of comic book panels, growing more handsome, and larger, with each new image.
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