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Sometimes I think back on that late August afternoon, when, reclining among the damp sheets of her queen-size bed, I watched her dance to “No Diggity” echoing from the café across street. Wearing nothing but a cut-off Pebbles T-shirt, she would sink her teeth into her lower lip and sway her hips every time the piano bit came on, one hand cupping the back of her neck and the other sliding down her midriff. A few matted locks covered her shut eyes and her pale skin looked sequined with tiny beads of sweat.

She left the country a week after. She wasn’t truly mine even then, her thoughts always somewhere else. Her parents were away, we were young and in need of diversion. It wasn’t love but it felt good.

Sometimes I search for the intimacy of that August afternoon. 

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