Blot

Is it odd that I blot those moments out of my memory, like a tobacco stain on linen, or a splash of mud on the welcome mat? You can fade the stain, but it never comes out. He falls, just like that. A simple moment, and I blot it with memories of chocolate and old conversation. He fell in the dirt. Surprised and clumsy. Or was it elegance? The lack of drama, a simple conclusion.

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