She was always comfortable with herself.  Felt good in her skin, and knew how to let it ride, to shine.  Tonight is a night to be at home, to recharge over wine and laundry.  She pushes the cassette into the player, the door silently clicking shut.  Her eyes closed she waits for the sweet sounds of Etta James, singing about how it is, to flood room with that easy feeling.  Pouring a glass of wine, she sits on the futon couch, chin on upraised knee, arms around her calves.  Staring quietly into the shadows of the candles reflection, her eyes...

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