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The Apartment #175


Dessert wines marshalled ramikins of finest ices and bowls of hand- picked fruit .
Tracey's focus was on one man. He sweated more than the rest and caught the camera with wet glints more often than any of the others. His cheeks and eyes were red with effort, but still he continued his assault on his food.
His greasy fingers parted his lips, fingernails scraped at his teeth. Then his fork scratched his nose. Then his chin.
Then dug into his cheek, pushing his face inwards like a deflating balloon as rivulets of crimson slipped down onto his dinner jacket.

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