Muina Arthur leaned back in a stuffed chair near the picture window of a friend’s Las Vegas home. A stack of poems typed on parchment paper sat at a table to her left. She gently ran her fingers over a small watercolor painting. She traced the face of a benevolent tiger, his eyes dark and expressive.
“People I knew, people I considered friends, would cross the street to avoid me when this happened.”
She paused, her hands trembling with emotion.
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