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50 Fashion Show She’d been modeling for him the booty of a sale: black pants with a pattern slightly raised, iridescing as she moved, the empire top that flowed down over her waist— how she looked to him! How she looked away, shying still, even with just the two of them, though she’d wanted so to do this, but flitting her eyes down from his eyes. Something tentative even in the flourish of her twirl, near teeter on the naked foot in strappy high heels. The stumble was his, though, and in mind, a sudden fall into his black assay of everything: childish wasn’t this childish, private showing and peek-a-boo, childish, their collusion in her display. But no, he righted himself, all joys childish, versions of the earliest, soon after self met other and could think itself an I: I show me to you. You see me. I see you. ...

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