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"The men are softer in the Midwest," her friend Patricia had said. "I bet statistical analysis would show that they cheat on their wives less per capita than in any other region."
They were drinking Janice's last bottle of gin, eating handfuls of Corn Bran straight out of the box--the only food left in Janice's packed up, stacked up apartment. All the boxes were labeled "coats" or "spices," branded like cows.
"Maybe it's the women," Janice had said matter-of-factly, as if she were not standing fully clothed in a bathtub of hot water, one hand on towel rack, the other gripping gin. he was thirty two, tall, plain except for too bright lipstick which made her face look wan. The water sloshed against her smoothly shaven calves, bubbles catching in her rolled-up gray slacks as she swished her sore feet around in the foam.