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37 Voyeurs A horse falls on a girl in its trailer. The horse is a thoroughbred lame with founder. The girl a girl. You can’t imagine the pain. You can’t because this story isn’t yours, isn’t that of the woman telling it either. You watch her take the basket of bread, tear it slice by broken slice. When the horse slips in the moving trailer, it pins the girl by her torso to the floor. The woman smiles. If he tries to rise, she says, his shoulder will push downward to her spine. The dull thud of the heart beats against her chest. She orders another glass of wine. You can see the girl’s damp fingers stroke the silken neck. You can’t imagine why the woman looks at you and smiles. The horse will grind its full weight into her. In the light, your thin sleeves sway 38 like flame. An image of the time he grabbed your wrist, twisted till you cried that he would break it. The woman takes the smallest sip of wine. Her face is flushed. A lock of hair is caught inside your mouth. One quick twist of shoulder. Another glass of wine? Voices sweep the metal, echo through the trailer. What to say of the dim shapes moving in the dark? Straw rustles. The breath grows shallower. You watch the damp face twist, the hands reach out to tear another, broken slice. ...

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