Could Do About Anything


aman_icon.gif pride2_icon.gif

Scene Title Could Do About Anything
Synopsis This goes out to a very special someone…
Date November 5, 2020


Tonight is a lighter night on Ourania Pride’s three set rotation. She plays for every song, but rarely lends her voice, except to provide the occasional harmony. She’s been trying to save her vocal cords of late, lest she burn herself out. Then she’d be no good to anyone. So it comes as some surprise when she signals to the bassist that she’d like to make a late change to the setlist. It isn’t the first time, and they’ve all done it on occasion. They’re all adaptable and, most importantly, good at making substitutions look like they had been planned all along.

In the crowd tonight, there's been a face new to the club's surroundings. Alone, he imagines himself anonymous in the dim lighting of the crowd. He's been listening passively, politely; garbed in a brown blazer, black turtleneck, with a thin maroon scarf draped and hanging from his neck. The direction from the chanteuse catches his eye, though, and he leans forward with interest, elbows on his knees.

Ourania leans forward into the microphone to address the crowd, fingers dancing over the keys in a quiet little improvised melody meant to fill the time between songs, when the other musicians need to change or adjust their instruments. “As most of our regulars know by now, I do really like to take requests. Tonight, someone asked me to play a very special song for someone very special to them. I hope you all enjoy it. Especially that very special someone. This one’s from your secret admirer.”

She glances up to her bandmates and nods when she receives the indication that they’re ready to go. Her fingers lift from the keys. In the silence that follows, the drummer counts off. Brushes hit the snare, there’s a roll on the cymbal. The pianist starts to play again, when she leans toward the mic again, her eyes close as they always do when she’s singing something particularly heartfelt.

If I could begin to be half of what you think of me
I could do about anything, I could even learn how to love

The man sitting alone shifts, looking away. Almost embarrassed, he skims the other attendees in the crowd, wondering who would have submitted this one. Was it one of them who his eyes skip over? Was it him, and she's playing it off well?

He's not sure.

When I see the way you act, wondering if I’m coming back
I could do about anything, I could even learn how to love like you
Love like you

Ourania opens her eyes again and starts to scan the crowd, a little smile on her lips as she continues to sing. Quite often, when she sings, she’s careful not to linger too long on any one person, except when delivering a clear dedication. Still, when she sings the next verse, her focus seems to settle on a table where one man sits alone.

When he realizes it, realizes her eyes are on him, he slowly draws up out of the lean he'd entered into. His brow lifts slowly, and suddenly he's re-evaluating everything. He's listening more closely, and the light in his eyes changes. His sense of gravity shifts.

I always thought I might be bad, now I’m sure that it’s true
‘Cause I think you’re so good, and I’m nothing like you
Look at you go, I just adore you
I wish that I knew what makes you think I’m so special

One of the things that keeps people coming back to Rossignol for more is the passion the star songstress pours into her music. This piece in particular is exceptional in that regard. Her voice trembles in just the right way to really convey a strong sense of deep devotion that might move someone to tears. The look on her face when she closes her eyes again, lips nearly brushing against the metal mesh over her microphone, is a bittersweet one.

In the crowd, the man sitting alone is moved. He's sunk back into his seat, the clasp of his hands together loosened and nearly broken apart. The last whisper of a note brings his eyes down to his lap, jaw working while he tries to reckon with what's being sung— what it feels like he is being told.

If I could begin to do something that does right by you
I would do about anything, I would even learn how to love
When I see the way you look, shaken by how long it took
I could do about anything, I could even learn how to love like you
Love like you

The breath Miss Pride takes before she leads into the final lyrics of the song is audible in the stillness of the crowd she’s managed to captivate.

Love me like you…

The broken chord played by the quick steps of her fingers seems fitting for a heart overwhelmed by an emotion that can’t be understood, but embraced all the same. As those final notes decay and fade under the hushed din of the few sustained conversations, Ourania lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, visible in the way her shoulders gently sag. When the applause begins, she looks relieved, smiling almost shyly. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “I hope the message found its intended recipient. I hope it found many tonight, in fact. I hope most of you can go home tonight feeling like you can be closer to the people you care for most.”

The band are gathering up their instruments. The bassist crosses to the piano. “You’ve all been lovely. Have a wonderful night.” The singer gently places the cover over the keys of her beloved piano and picks up her cane from the end of the bench where it sits out of sight from the audience during the performance. The bassist helps her down the steps from the stage, and Ourania makes her way to her reserved seat at the end of the bar, where her lemon drop waits for her.

And no rose.

Amanvir Binepal almost misses Ourania's lift away from the stage with how his head is still focused down. It's a haze he snaps from, luckily, at just the right moment. Throat tight, he looks up and watches her descent, sees the direction she heads off in.

What in the world does he do with this?

For once… he's glad for the privacy afforded to him by the nights she performs. Glad that his thoughts and feelings are his own instead of shared, even if they feel too heavy to possibly belong to just him at the moment. Glad for… he doesn't know. But he knows what he felt— that her eyes had been on him, even if he didn't request anything. Hell, he didn't even think she'd known he was here.

She'd poured her heart into that, and he was almost certain it was for him.

Aman looks to the shadowed spot of seating in his booth, pulling the thin item he'd brought with him off of the cushion, and coming to his feet. He lingers for a moment in indecision, but walks decisively toward the bar, soft in step.

"Here I was thinking I'd have to find some way backstage to give these to you. But hey, out here they match your drink."

A trio of tulips— one yellow, one orange and veined in darker color, and one red— are laid beside her drink. Roses felt ostentatious, maybe even silly. She did this sort of thing nights every week, after all. But tulips were just an excuse to brighten up her space, maybe. Not a dozen, just a few.

Aman only wonders if there's any more meaning to them after he's laid them down.

Less smooth than his insertion into her personal space is what happens after, the way he glances down at her with a small, uncertain smile. "Glad I was finally able to make it out and see what all the fuss is about. You were great… Ranya."

The difference in name doesn't normally throw him for as much of a loop, but it's not as though it's mattered this much until tonight. It's the first time they've interacted together in a public setting. It's that much more important now.

Flowers aren’t generally unexpected, but they usually either show up in singles or large bouquets and rarely anything in between. This beautiful trio — and one in her favorite color — elicits a gasp of delight from their recipient. Ourania rests her hand over the center of her chest to signal being taken aback, turning to see who’s given her such a beautiful gift.

“Amanvir.” Her face lights up to convey how pleasant a surprise this is. The gift and his presence. It is a surprise. They tend not to meet in crowded places, which means she’s keenly aware of his presence and his proximity at all times due to her ability and their link. A one-way mirror that allows her to glimpse him through the frame while he only sees his reflection. It isn’t often he can simply appear at her elbow without her being aware of his approach. Any other night, she may have looked alarmed to see him. But any other night carried a risk that he would show up. Tonight, the songbird is flying solo.

Or, she was. “You’re very kind,” she demures, a faint blush to her cheeks. “I’m glad you enjoyed the show.” She plays as though she hadn’t seen him in the crowd. As though she hadn’t been looking right at him. Maybe she can’t actually see into the audience from the stage? “Would you join me for a drink? It’s on the house.” She gestures to the empty seat next to her, nudging away the marker on the bar that signifies it as Reserved.

At the sound of his name, Aman's smile becomes a little more easy. "Yeah, I got your text and figured… why not?" He looks away, putting off an air cooler and lighter than he feels, in a way that'll surely break before long. He wonders to himself if maybe he's read too much into her song, after all. If that would just make things awkward to bring it up? Surely.

But she asks him for a drink, and that's an easy enough segue. "Sure," he answers, but a look beyond their seat to the bar itself ends in a lingering look. He isn't sure what he wants, if anything. Beer at home was one thing, but he's never had harder alcohol present, or desired. "You're the expert here," he defers after spending just a moment too long looking. "They have anything good on tap tonight?"

He leans one arm against the side of the bar, looking like he belongs. Like he could belong, anyway, even if at the moment he's an outsider. He's better at being a chameleon than he lets on, usually. Aman swivels his head back to Ourania with a comfortable smile.

Ourania’s brows lift while he explains the casual nature of his visit. Nothing better to do, so why not come see a show? Her eyes sparkle with secret amusement when he asks her to choose his drink for him. It used to be that she was the one asking that question. It’s nice to be able to return the favor. Her hand lifts from the bar to flag down the man behind it, who seems to always have her in his periphery. There’s perks to being the headliner. It helps, too, that her asymmetrical dress sparkles when she waves her sleeved arm.

“Can I get a Defender for my friend, please? Thank you.” Turning back to Aman, the blonde confides, “I actually try all the new beers when they come in, before we open the doors — they make this one in Williamsburg. The martinis are nice, and they suit me, but…” She smiles at the conspiracy shared between them now, “I’d rather be drinking a sour or a pilsner most nights.” So much of this is image, however. When she’s here and the doors are open, she’s someone other than herself. A woman of class, distinction, and the appearance of accessibility. Even when her partner’s alongside her, careful not to infringe on her personal space. That looks like keeping him at arm’s length to maintain the illusion that perhaps she’s just waiting for the next best suitor to come along.

The beer is set in front of him while others are left waiting for their orders. A nod dismisses the tender, signals that he shouldn’t come back to check until she summons him again. Her expression softens when she turns her attention back to her companion for the evening. “I’m glad you came.”

It takes the beer being in hand for Aman to actually settle, drinking healthily off the top of it to cut into any sense of self-questioning why he was here and what had happened during her last set. He closes his eyes before setting the pint glass back down, appreciating the taste that works its way over his tongue and into his blood. "Local," he remarks appreciatively. "Nice. It's got more character to it than I would have expected." He turns the glass about as if by doing so he'll gain a better angle to look at the dark stout. "There's oat, I think. It smooths it out."

But he didn't come here to talk about beer, even if he has no idea what he did come to talk about.

He turns to regard her the way she does him, seeing the softness in her eyes rather than feeling it silently. His own look is guarded, for all the casual air he puts off. He tries to mask his uncertainties, anyway. "I meant to come a few weeks back, but time just got away from me." Aman shakes his head slightly. "I'd planned on just… showing up." Kind of like this, but different. "Staying in the back and out of sight, just watching you do your thing."

"The guy up front, though— he really sold me on the seat I ended up at. Said if I was here for the music, there was nowhere better to listen from." He lets out a faint laugh at his inability to resist the upsell. "I don't think he was wrong, at least."

“Well,” she starts with a smile, “I’m glad someone convinced you to come to your senses.” If he’d stayed in the background and never let on that he was there, it would have made her sad. Well, if she ever found out he’d done it anyway. Her eyes linger on his just a little too long to be conversational. When she realizes it, she breaks away, reaching for her drink providing an excellent excuse for it.

“What did you think of the last song?” she asks before bringing the glass to her lips for a deep drink. Deceptively casual. She wishes she could reach out to him the way she usually does, but perhaps it’s better this way. This way is just them, and no cheating.

The flowers prove he'd not have hung back forever. Maybe, anyway.

Aman takes a moment to review the house when she says she's glad he came out somewhere visible. Sure, he just spent a good deal of time with nothing to do but just that, but this is a different angle. From here, he can also appreciate those pricy box seats on the second story. When the gulf of the conversation grows, maybe he shouldn't be surprised she seeks to fill it with the elephant. What other option was there?

"It— was nice to hear you singing. Just you. I'd never heard the song before, so I just… listened."

All true things.

His mouth works, lips pursing as he tries to find a way to address what he thought he heard and felt. He struggles, instead, with feeling foolish. "Found myself wondering just who requested that one. Those… were some powerful feelings to be shared."

Aman realizes what he needs to ask, turning back to Ourania. "How often do you play that one?"

She smiles, bolstered by the fact that he seemed to enjoy himself. She’s patient while he visually explores the space she knows very well at this point. It’s fun to watch someone else take it in for the first time, appreciating the touches that have gone into making Rossignol warm and intimate, despite its size. “You should see the piano up in the large box,” she murmurs when she catches him glancing that direction. “I got to pick it myself. It’s a custom. They’re very kind to me here.”

He doesn’t need their link to be active to feel the genuine sentiment behind that. Her gratitude is profound. For all that he tends not to know how her nights go, given the necessity of her needing to close herself off from too many emotional signatures at once, it’s easy to see now that this is a place she feels at home. He’s felt her moments of triumph and frustration throughout her days in her laboratory. Now that he’s seen her sing, however, there’s little doubt that she’s happy here. This is her passion.

When Aman asks his question, she glances around briefly, as if curious enough to people-watch even while they converse. Satisfied with her sweep of their surroundings, she shakes her head slightly. “We’ve practiced it quite a bit — I demand perfection before I’ll perform a piece — but we’ve never played it for an audience before.” Again, Ourania finds his eyes and lingers there, admiring the shade of them. It’s so easy just to see them as dark, but there’s a depth to them, and a warmth. Her own are hard and icy cold in comparison, she feels.

Aman refocuses back up when she shares there's a piano hiding up there, too. His shoulders settle, guarded in his consideration of heading off to see that. Unlike the space here, he's not sure of his comfort level up there. He'll have to take her word for it.

When she takes her time in framing her answer, it brings his gaze back down to earth, to her. When Ourania turns to find him, he's already watching.

She's never played it before. He feels his sense of weight slip.

"Waiting for just the right moment… huh?" Aman asks slowly, carefully.

That he doesn’t express interest in seeing the piano up in the box is actually a relief. She can pass off entertaining a patron at the bar. If she took him upstairs, and someone said something about it… The thought is dismissed before it can leave a sour taste in her mouth and feeling in her stomach.

“Yeah,” she responds, smile having faded. He’s seen this look on her face more than once, both times while standing in his kitchen. (Two different kitchens, but coincidentally in those spaces both times.) “It was very important to me that it be saved for just the right person. Someone who deserves it.” Ourania shakes her head slightly. “I don’t know if I’ll find a reason to sing it again.”

Aman's not as good at acting, at concealing. Not when it's about something like this.

"Des," leaves him in a whisper that's not even vocalized, his drink forgotten, the bar forgotten. He looks at her in her pretty yellow dress and the way it gleams in part in the light, the way it clings to her, the way she tilts her head slightly when she looks up at him. It all reflects in his eyes as he loses himself for a moment, reeling with the weight of what she's saying, even if it all rests between the lines. His mouth gapes as he struggles with an answer, one that doesn't involve taking her hand, or speaking too truthfully or too vaguely.

He's not good at this like she is.

His head turns away and his beer is rediscovered. He tips it back in a long drink, eyes unfocused for how much he's thinking on the topic, clearing the taste of the beer from his lips with a flash of his tongue before he can finally speak. "I wish you would. It's— it's a beautiful song. And… all I can hope is…"

Aman looks back to Ourania, a troubled look passing over him before his eyes soften. "That it's appreciated enough. You know?" Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe he's just putting his foot in his mouth.

Either way, the pintglass he's just set aside begins to tip all on its own. It doesn't spill, owing to how much has been drank from it, but it rests along one edge slowly, and then it comes away from the bartop altogether in a hover, like most of it's lost its sense of earthly grounding.

"I wish, I hope that—" Aman's failure to put his feelings into words manifests in another way, the tip of his red scarf floating upward. When it comes into his line of sight, it breaks off his attempts. Instead, he blinks. "Shit," he breathes out, reaching for it to smooth the surface of it back down against his torso. He doesn't even notice the floating drink.

There’s a flash of alarm and warning in her eyes when he uses his preferred nickname for her. This is part of why she’s hoped to break him of this habit, but she can’t say it isn’t gratifying in its own way. But without their tether to one another, his reaction feels like rejection. Like he’s fumbling for ways to tell her thanks, but no thanks. He may not be good at acting, not the way she is, but he’s still better at it than she is at reading people’s emotions without the aid of her ability.

“Oh,” she says softly, nodding her head like it’s understood. “Yeah. I mean… hopefully it made someone’s night.” Then at least someone will have gotten something from her putting her heart on display, however disguised. “If two souls find each other, then…”

Whatever she’s about to say next is cut off when she catches sight of the floating glass. The scarf was difficult to miss, certainly, and it broke her from the spell she seems to fall under whenever she stares into those eyes like that. “Aman,” she hisses, pushing up from her seat enough to lean forward and snatch the glass out of the air and bring it back down to the bartop. “Amanvir, look at me. Breathe.” She knows enough about him to know that this is him, and he’s not in control.

“Breathe with me. In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three four. Out, two, three, four… Good. Again.”

It's with no small amount of frustration that Aman looks up when Ourania notes his slip, willing the world to quit feeling like it's floating at the worst possible moment.

And that's when his hand bumps the side of the bar, and he realizes his soles have left the ground. His hand snaps to the bartop, pulling himself back down and using that leverage to keep him rooted to the ground. This is great. This is Fine. Everything— is just fine.

He keeps his silence rather than make excuses, meeting her eyes with a tight jaw. He makes a show of breathing in, holding, and breathing out. And he finds that, somewhat, it does help. But he can't help but laugh to himself as his stomach feels like it's on a non-stop drop still. "Holy shit, I get why this girl hates this now. She didn't warn me about the…" His words taper off, the back of the hand not helping pin him down coming to his mouth.

He closes his eyes and breathes in again, holds it as she asks, then sighs it away. And the world feels a little less liable to escape away from him.

"I've got news for us both." Aman announces, glancing up at her out of the corner of his eye. "The link is off, and I still…" He looks off now, trying to avoid the way his feet are trying to decide to give walking on the ceiling a try.

His laughter is self-deprecating at this point, but deep with humor. "You make me feel like this."

Her brow is creased with worry. They’re indoors, so he can’t get too far, but if that weightlessness were to suddenly stop, he could hurt himself, and that scares her. So far, he seems to have it under control enough that he’ll at least stay at bar level, if not firmly on the ground. That’s a workable situation for now.

While he works on breathing the way she’s told him to — the way she does when she’s got butterflies in her stomach backstage and she is willing herself to calm — she hums quietly, hoping to soothe. Of course a song sprang to mind in this situation, but she doesn’t indulge the words. There’s a brief flash of a smile when he comments on the ability’s owner and what she thinks of the situation he’s holding for her.

The humor fades from her when he tells her why he’s suddenly having a difficult time with it. She looks like she should be going pale, but instead it’s as though roses bloom in her cheeks. “That makes two of us,” she responds in a soft voice.

All at once she feels like she could fly without an ability like he’s displaying at the moment.

All at once she feels terrified.

She wants to reach for him. Hold his hands, hold him down to earth, kiss him senseless until they both float away. Instead, she’s worried about having maintained eye contact for too long. This is not the place for these feelings and all the ways she’d like to physically manifest them, even if she absolutely started it.

“Do I need to tie a string around you and keep you with me like a balloon?” she jokes with a shaky smile. “Or can I leave you here while I get changed?” Ourania would love to just drag him to the back of house with her, where she can keep an eye on him, but that would be even more disastrous than being caught with him in the VIP section. “I normally stay until close, but I’m suddenly feeling very tired, and you’ve been kind enough to offer to walk with me to the ferry.”

This is their story. He’ll walk with her in lieu of her usual escort.

"Ha ha, very funny," Aman reports dryly to the comment about the string. "No, I'll be fine after… a minute."

Looking to the drink on the bar, he nods to it. "Probably by the time I finish off this and you come back out." As a test, he lets go of the bartop, and while he feels liable to still float away, he doesn't actually do it. So, there's that. He holds up his hands as proof. "See? I've got it. You're dealing with a professional here."

Regardless, he swallows on nothing and nods his head in the direction he figures backstage to be. "Go do what you need to. I'll make sure you don't walk alone tonight, after."

“I know I am,” Ourania teases fondly. The fact that he’s able to make light of it is a huge relief, even if her heart is still racing like a frightened rabbit’s. “I’ll be a minute,” she warns. There’s a lot of work that goes into getting into and out of her gowns. “In the meantime, you flag down Mike there,” her eyes cast up to the man working the bar, “if you need anything else at all before I get back. He’ll take care of you.”

Sliding off her seat, she gathers up the pretty tulips and her half-drank martini in one hand, careful not to crush the stems against the side of the glass. Then she retrieves her cane. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promises, an earnestness to her expression before she manages to turn away and head toward the velvet curtain set into the wall several feet from the stage. A man in a suit draws it aside and pushes open the door concealed behind it for her, then closes it all up again once she’s slipped away into the hallway.

In her dressing room, she sets aside her things. The cane settles against the arm of the sofa, the martini finds a home on the vanity among her face powder and brushes. The tulips are set lovingly in a vase and admired while she starts to work free the fastenings of her dress.

It’s heavy when it hits the floor, a deep sigh accompanying the sensation of being suddenly unburdened in a way she hadn’t realized she was feeling until she no longer was. It’s gathered up and carefully left to hang from a hook on the outside of her freestanding wardrobe. She’ll wrestle it into a garment bag another night.

Foundations are peeled out of next. Restrictive garments that make the lines of her gowns smooth, but come at the cost of comfort. It’s all swapped out for boring white cotton that’s light against her skin and lets her feel like she can finally breathe unhindered again. The things she does in the name of her vanity. Although… She catches sight of herself in the mirror — distinctly dull and entirely unappealing — and laughs at herself quietly. It’s more astonishing to her the things she’ll do in the name of her own comfort after indulging the trappings of glamour. Lace and underwires used to feel like acts of rebellion against drab exteriors before. Elastic feels like freedom now.

With a shake of her head, she redresses with more ease than she was able to undress. When she’s slipped back into the bar, she’s got her purse hanging from the bend of her elbow, her coat draped over the top of it. Her sweaterdress is a green-grey cabled thing with a camel colored belt around her waist and matching knee-high boots. Ourania sets her empty martini glass on the bar, sliding it toward the tender. “Need a minute yet?” she asks Aman. “Or are you ready?”

Aman looks up from his phone when Ourania reappears, sliding it away back into his pocket. "Yeah," he affirms. "Ready when you are." The last of his stout is downed and nudged toward the back ledge of the bar, his blazer adjusted before he comes to a stand again, gravity all as one would expect it should be now that he's had a few minutes to cool down. "Just need to grab my coat from up front and we're golden." He pauses a beat. "Platinum?"

It's an attempt at a music joke. An attempt is as far as he gets.

He's not sure where they go from here, not after putting together the pieces of their puzzle and finding out they still fit without glue holding them together. Not when, at the very least, there was left the task of putting together the rest of the picture. Not when… so many other circumstances still needed considered.

"I wasn't expecting to head home so early, but shit happens. I'm glad I got to catch most the set tonight, at least. Makes the trip worth it."

Assuming they really do part ways after the ferry ride back to the Safe Zone. But that ball he intends to leave in her court. It's her with the more complicated situation at the moment, anyway.

The humor brings with it a smile as she sets down her cane and purse on the empty seat next to Aman so she can unfold and tug on her coat. The hem of it falls below that of her skirt. With the chill in the air outside, she takes the time to button it up fully before she regathers her things.

“I wasn’t suggesting we head home,” Ourania murmurs, catching his gaze as she sweeps a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her hair free from where it tucked beneath her collar. “Just… somewhere where we can be us.

Lifting her hand, she wiggles her fingers to Mike behind the bar. “Calling it early,” she tells him with a smile. “Make sure no one waits around to walk with me tonight, okay?” Since she has the eye of her co-worker, she sweeps past Aman, tilting her head toward the front doors as she does. It isn’t as though she’s difficult to keep up with, given that she’s still leaning on her cane.

Once they’re outside and the din of the club and stepping away from the warm lights of the building, she turns her face up to look at the man walking alongside her, and smiles. “When I was scoping out your new digs,” and definitely not stalking him, “I saw there’s a park nearby. What do you think?” Ourania pats the side of her large purse. “I’ve got a whole blanket in here.”

With a glance upward at the sky to see what he can see of the clouds, Aman mulls it over. He looks ahead again toward the docks, deciding if he can brave the air while crossing over the river, maybe he'd do just fine for a while somewhere there's less wind than that.

Maybe the cool will help him keep his head a bit better, too.

"Been a while since I've broke curfew," he supposes. Most parks close at dusk, after all. "But I'm not opposed to living a little."

“You’re pretty,” she responds without a trace of amusement. “I’m sure if we got busted for curfew violation, they’d let you off with a warning.” Ourania glances to him out of the corner of her eye then with just a glint of mischief.

It lasts only a beat longer before she grins at him. “It’ll be fun. I have a whole blanket in my purse.” She pats the side of her large bag once and shrugs. “I wrap myself up like a burrito on the ferry when I don’t have the car to huddle in.”

Aman blinks his surprise at her comment about him. After that initial reaction wears off, he fixes her with a head-tilted stare to convey he's patently not sure, but not skeptical enough either to argue they'd somehow not be fine.

"Well, miss Ourania," he supposes. "We'll have to find out if there's room for two in there, won't we?"

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