The Perfect Tomorrow
The jazz on the radio was good enough to make Thomas forget, for three minutes at a time, that he had a face nobody would ever want to kiss. He stood by the window of his Harlem apartment, listening to a trumpet player work himself into a frenzy, and traced the scar with his thumb. It ran from his right temple down to his jawline—a jagged line left by shrapnel in the Argonne Forest, two years...
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