You smile when you speak to me. I suppose I smile too. Then just a day later you were bending down to pick up something and I spied, if for the most fleeting second, your anus. It too brought out a feeling verging on compassion, partly because I felt I had trespassed by just looking and partly because it made me know for the first time that you were kind, vulnerable, soft. I should never have looked. When I thought about it, it made me feel I’d infringed on something wholesome and private and ever so chaste about you, like an instance of the holy that suddenly flares before our eyes and then
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