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I called a party supply shop across town.
A woman answered, chipper.
“I need a reveal box filled with balloons,” I said. “Not pink or blue.”
“Okay,” she said.
“What colors?”
“Black.”
Silence.
Then, gently: “Black?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I need a word printed on every balloon.”
“What word?”
Her voice dropped into that tone women use when we recognize a shared enemy.
“Got it,” she said. “Do you want matte or shiny?”
I blinked.
Even in grief, I appreciated professionalism.
“Shiny,” I said. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
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