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she liked leading
virginal little boys
silly giggles and
sweaty palms into
the decaying darkness
nervously, claiming innocence
excuses and apologies
what the hell am i doing here?
pure and frightened
nobody denied her
nobody would talk
nobody would believe
the smart ones
the chubby ones
the ugly ones
naïve and immature
until she finished with them

-famous poet

"Pick me up after work, and we can hang out for a bit if you'd like." Who are you to resist? "Oh, and bring a flashlight," she says as an afterthought.

You arrive, knight in shining white armor, to rescue her from the fake plastic world of cashiering. Smiling, she says, "Let's go trespassing!"

So that's what the flashlight's for. As night falls, you follow her through abandoned playgrounds and dead cornfields long-ago sown with salt. Over and under, through forest path, you come to the abandoned barn.

"This is where I had my first LSD trip," she says.
Are angels supposed to trip acid? "The memories," you offer sardonically.
"Yes, yes..." She sits. You do the same.
"What else happens here?"
"Oh lotsa things...seances, rituals..."
"Lemme see your glasses." It's more a demand than a suggestion.

You're blind. Naked to the world and the angel before you. You can make out the face disembodied from her black dress (angel's wear white?) and the faint adumbrations of splayed hairstrands. "I'm blind," you clarify.
"Really?" mock surprise. "What am I doing?"
"You're sitting across from me."
"You're leaning toward..."
"What was that for?"
"Whatsa matter? Don't you like me?"

What ensues is the scene played out in many a dream. EXCEPT. Except you're Gatsby - you fell in love with a demon, not an angel. Except you're not the sexual virtuoso you always thought you were. Except it's nothing like you ever expected - or wanted.

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