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No,” says Natalie. “Don’t do that.” She comes over and sits next to me, her eyes damp and luminous. She is six months pregnant, and maybe because she’s carrying the future in her body, she is lately a bit hyperconcerned that the world might not turn out to be a predictable, rational place. She always looks like she’s about to cry. Two days ago she picked me up from the airport when I came in from California for the wedding, and when a Prince song came on the radio, honest to God, she had to pull the car over because she was crying too hard to see. All because Prince shouldn’t have had to die, she said.
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