The Finnish girl is in the shop. The grapefruit in her hands is the exact size and weight of his head. She is not thinking about him, because she hasn't stopped to rest it on her breasts.
       The Finnish girl is riding her bike. It is as hot and damp outside as a kiss. She is still not thinking about him, because she hasn't stuck her tongue in the air.
       The Finnish girl is writing an email. She hasn't once thought of him, though his name is there, staring up from under her fingers like an anagram made from angry, tattooed eyes.
       The Finnish girl is eating well, unplugging things, applying for jobs. There is nothing in her mind that isn't muesli, electricity or her new CV. She has been waiting for three years to have raisins and not him in her muesli. To turn on the kettle and not hear him humming through it. To not have his name listed next to 'Current Employment'.
       She gave him two years of her youth. The least she can do is not think about it.

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