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42 Christmas, 1964 It is easy enough when the man you just met lifts his arms, beckoning you to turn, and your body obeys, and the ladies of the house have made four trays of chicken mole, laid them out with pozole, tamales, spiced rum. You will be here awhile, I suspect, if the Christmas lights keep chasing your pulse around the room. You will step and shake long enough to break a cool sweat, the net of your arms trawling the dance floor for more. Your grandmother thought you could get pregnant if you moved this way. Maybe it’s true. Children are swimming through the room. The one circling your hips wants to cut in, rise to the surface of your chest, and rock. You are practicing surrender here with your whole body, so that when the time comes, you will say yes, when later you will think, how am I going to do this? ...

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