she whispers, and I can’t tell if it’s a swear or if it’s a prayer. It doesn’t really matter either way; she’s tugging her shirt off as fast as she can, tossing it behind her. I rumble in approval, leaning forward to get a better view. She’s wearing a pale lavender bra, a sweet color against her warm brown skin, and I can see the dark circles of her nipples under the thin fabric. I can see them hardening, pulling up tight. I can also see the faint shadows of her ribs laddering down her sides and a faded mandala-like doodle spiraling out from her hip. A college student who sometimes forgets to
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