And suddenly, the name was there. Shining golden in the black inky theatre of my mind. Each letter defined as if carved out of gold or polished bronze. TRICIA. But I pushed it out, disbelieving. And then, ironically, I was right. It didn’t surprise me, exactly. Only the irony of it. The irony that I already possessed the knowledge of the intriguing one’s identity, and the irony of his utter dislike of “players” and his choice of one best friend after another. As though he had them lined up and was pretending to wear a mask.

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