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16 For Two Voices I. In the broad dusk a winter Friday she stood sideways to the mirror. One foot and calf wrapped in the mulberry leather of a heeled boot, the other tip-toed naked for balance. She pulled her dress up to pull her knickers down assessing whether – without a gnawing panty-line – her silhouette was smoother. I saw her recently quivering thighs, the dip of navel in the flat of stomach, a swell, a puff, and then the dress was down again. I cannot say why this moved me so. 17 II. In the solstice slant a late Tuesday’s sun he lay on his side, my leg cocked over his hip. He spoke. I don’t know what he said. His skin was creamy white; mine was sallower, deeper. His nipples were browner, and bigger; mine, pinker and tighter. My arms almost hairless, his chest sprouting unevenly. But we both had freckles – hot chocolate spattered star speckles – and they ran all over his chest to spread into the sky of my thigh as though dispersed to a different universe. I cannot say why this moved me so. ...

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