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Chickens In the brothel

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Jane wanted chickens.  Live ones. “Four of them,” she told me matter-of-factly.  She thought about it some more then said, “No six.  Yes, six.  And red.” “Six red chickens,” I repeated, not looking up.  We were having lunch outside, as it was an unseasonably warm day.  I was trying to decide what I wanted to eat knowing full well that I would order the same thing I always did.  I like to think that I want something new; that...

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