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They’d been down a thousand roads together by the time her neck gave out. Five-second trysts between matches in the showers; an hour in a car somewhere by Lockheed when they stalled out; two days lost in a snowstorm, holding hands and making out under a pile of blankets in Japan.

They made desperate love against the wall of a shower the night Lita announced her retirement, slippery thigh grinding furtively together, breasts rubbing as they kissed in desperation, in lust.

The orgasm they shared had the resolute finality of a bell chiming. It was the end, and never would it strong, or holy, or right between them. But when Trish let her go, it was with a reluctant caress to her slipper cheek. “Stay safe, Amy,” she requested, gathering her gear and dressing some distance away.

And then she was thrown into the isolated world of the past, the airless lockbox no other person would ever be able to pry open. She closed her eyes and composed herself. The memories would fade like a bruise, but they would always be a mark upon her humanity.

“I fucking hate this business,” Lita –Amy now, Amy for the rest of her life - declared, turning her face toward the water and letting it soak away her regrets, her anger, her fear.