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D E B R A A . D A N I E L Hymn of Invitation This spring they are in style again, those piqué blouses with buttons in back, the ones that bare the arms to day-lit nights, nip the waist, then slit and flit to a coy hemline, flirting with the earliest hint of hip. I wore mine first on a Sunday evening, vespers in a whisper-painted church, sunset and colored glass in ripe reflection on the boy next to me in the cushioned pew. Slanted rays blushed him, stained his hands. When the lights dimmed for the sermon, he pulled a pen from his pocket, leaned forward, drew on the length and meat of his thumb, a hula girl; and as his knuckles bent and swiveled, she danced a crimson sway. His gaze angled at me, brown eyes so humid, I wanted to lift my hair, let air cool the nape of my neck. He straightened, crossed his arms so that his hands were hidden. We sat not quite touching, the service edging to invitation. And then his index finger slow and sure as sin found and grazed my sleeveless skin, tracing a line down and up, down and up; while the girl he had drawn lay folded and curled tight against his palm. The 2000s ❚ 297 ...

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