She comes to him with eyes like jars of honey. He raises his head and pulls her face down and tastes the lids but she won’t open them. There you go again, she sighs, there you go – and now at once, dilating inside him, there is a desolation so mellow that his sutured skull pulses with the shame of it. She places a cool fingered palm over the spot, in a benediction not unasked for, and she whispers, lips without eyes: Just face it, sugar. If I were the one for you, you would never know anything so sweet.



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