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February 22, 2008
You – the one who still calls me “querida”.

You worshipped me without my permission – or your wife’s. Partly my fault, yes – for pushing, teasing, to see how far you’d go to please me.

On your knees while I lounged on my bunk, your head bent over my toes, your fingers stained with purple nail polish. Orly’s Berlin Swing.

You didn’t even hesitate when I told you to take off your shoes, now, and paint your own toenails.

Eight years later, you proudly snatched off your sneakers to show me that your toenails were still, and always, painted with Berlin Swing.