![]() ![]() My fingers felt swollen with focus and desire. I wore a brown corduroy jacket most days, and I remember waiting to be with you – putting my fingers in the jacket pockets until the pockets couldn’t contain my incessant want. We agreed to talk about it sometime soon. I knew that I was not going to be the same person for loving you. I knew, before I was close to you, that your cotton-blue hoodie smelled like smoke, and I could put my entire body beneath it. I reached out and touched them – they were double mine and whiter. I waited for the right silence and then said flatly that I liked you. ![]() You were my teacher, and we discussed my fiction. We started the affair in a small booth at Village Inn. You knew to be excited in proximity to my power. Story is inhuman and beyond me, and I’m not sure you ever recognized that. It’s something on a continuum, so far reaching you know it came from an inhuman place. It comes from a traditional upbringing and regarding my work as something more sacred than generations of effort or study. I had authority – a thing that people like you haven’t witnessed. ![]()
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