Poetic justice, or, Milicas

Some months ago, I sat in a bar, watching bad comedy with a good friend. The chick to my left – a hot, young, thing – couldn’t peel her eyes from me, nor I, her. I wrote about it. Her ambivalence, her conflict, her intimidation, got the better of her, and though she called me twice that night, we never spoke again.

Turns out, her name was Milica. Or, not, actually, Milica, but the same name as the other name by which Milica goes.

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