Theodore Wilson studied his twin’s photo in The New York Times. He set the red porcelain mug on the café’s tabletop, resting his beefy hands on his thighs. How could Sherman look so young? Where were his wrinkles, liver spots, jowls? Sherman either spent hours sipping consommé or paid piles of moolah for liposuction and the knife. His teeth, too, must be capped. Theodore stroked his wattle. Sagging skin hadn’t sent him running to the plastic surgeon to look youthful. On the contrary, he had embraced his folds as a flip-off to upper-crust norms.
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