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"Was it his fault?"

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“No,” he says, already slipping, and thinks about silent suites and cold car rides, itchy fingers, and one night in Vegas, Jerry pushing and pushing and pushing and a hard glitter of crystal pelted and crashing, missing his head by a hair, whistling keen, turning to study sharp shards and fragments of it and dreaming it dappled with scarlet, chunks of hair and skin and his partner tired then, deflated, staring at his empty hand, and Jerry should have gone to him, put his arms around him, kept him there, instead retreated from the dressing room, “it was my fault.”