She handed the open tube across the cello.What do I do with this? I asked. You write your name. You’re being dramatic. Am I? she asked. The name of the lipstick was Japanese Maple. Against her pale skin, the letters looked lurid and blotchy. The Japanese maple on our roof was slightly more purple than the lipstick. Its leaves in fall the color “of bruises” Ana once said. She would have looked good wearing that pigment. I held the glistening tube in my hand, not knowing what to write or where. I wanted to write Ana’s name, or both our…
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