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September 13, 2007
“does it hurt?” his fingers jump from the wound as if it burns him. It draws and repels him, the wide roughly-stitched gash.

She turns over as if she’s underwater and billows out continents of smoke. “not a bit.” Her smirks stretches lazily across her face.

“well, generally. Not *now*” his hand is back, hovering. He brushes lightly down her side, near the wound and away at the last minute. He imagines it is torturously painful. A car’s passing headlight illuminates their shadows against the wall and moves their shapes across the room, distorting the image of them, the bed.