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July 27, 2004
Tomorrow, he says, he'll return the book I lent him two months ago. He'll hand it to me with the same hands that've touched his body to wash his skin and scratch his nose and rub his eyes and do unspeakable things I'd like to talk to him about on the phone, under cover of darkness and the cocoon of my comforter.

But we're not the "we" we used to be. So when he hands the book back with his thanks, I'll just politely say "You're welcome". And once home, under cover of my covers, do unspeakable things to it.