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35 Holiday Weekend He’s dragging his Mediterranean tongue around the perimeter of my wife’s lullaby, like Hector’s body around the gates of Troy. She’s arching off the bed, learning to speak with her hips, saying: drink from this ceramic bowl, Achilles. I whimper, Helen, don’t, into the strip of cloth wedged between my teeth. The worst part is not how my hands are cuffed to the spindles of the antique rocking chair we picked out together. The worst part is not the O her mouth makes as he tugs brightly colored moans out of her, like hundred-dollar pashmini scarves, or the bedsprings rattle like wedding rings shaken in a tin can. No, the worst part is my own body betraying me, my heart clanging in time with their rhythm, and how cozy I am playing second fiddle in the soundtrack of my life. ...

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