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In the four years we’d been friends, I’d never seen Dana without a full face of makeup or as anything less than impeccably dressed. This occurred to me as I drove the forty minutes across town to meet her for lunch—this plus the fact that I’d rushed out the door that morning in a stretchy old dress and a pair of studded flat sandals, which, by my own admission, should have been retired during the summer of 2008. Pressing my foot against the gas pedal, I felt the familiar grooves of my toes embedded in the old leather and I knew: Dana wouldn’t understand.
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