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"He has got a small forehead like me," said Mrs. Bukha, 44, her voice breaking.
His visage, the faintly smiling outline of his lips, and his straight clear forehead reminded me of features I had seen on earth.
And suddenly I had dressed her in a pink sari, swathing her girlish form in Indian silk, a scarlet mark of caste on her forehead, and me in tails and turban of immaculate white, observing her with pride as now her head goes back with a gay burst of laughter, her throat clean and curved and alive and as alive as a robin's, following some polished shaft of wit.
Him kissing her on the forehead gave me the willies.
He came out with a flying heel to my forehead, knocked me out in the first five seconds.
The Marine guy started to throw chairs around, hit me with his forehead, and describe me with all kinds of adjectives I didn't deserve, for no reason.
Well, smack me on the forehead and call me an idiot.
Each time I came to my husband with a confession he kissed me on the forehead and held me.
Sunday morning as I made my way to the kitchen for coffee, my husband stopped and kissed me on the forehead and wished me a good morning.
Multicolored Latin men standing their ground against turf invaders, wearing T-shirts and pegged pants, with an angry curled lock of defiance spilling onto their foreheads, haunted me in my exiles in the Bronx, New England and the Lower East Side.
A few hours later, my new foster mother tucked me into bed, kissed my forehead, and told me I had a family now.
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