T took our her dentures and told us her speciality was deep-throat. "I sing opera," she said. Butter reclined on the adjacent bed; her breath became belabored as we delved into the hard questions.
"If someone was ready to help you, what would you ask for?"
"Three hundred," replied T.
Three hundred.
Butter fell asleep, snoring softly. Her face looked peaceful.
She introduced me to her baby's daddy, tucked under the covers of the dimly lit motel room.
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