Tiny cherubs of joy paddle the air. Must I mention their preposterous wings? No: I sit. I pull the door shut, the cubicle expands like feathers. The girl walks in, hesitates. I watch her stop her shoes next door, the bottoms of her frayed blue jeans. (I’m trying not to make a sound.) She bends down, places paper on the seat, carefully sits. Her shoes face forward, the jeans fall to her feet. I listen, then, to the sound of fabric falling down to the floor of the stall. The girl is gone. I pull on her jeans, shoes, underwear. Again, the sound of God’s snake hissing: sudden breasts on my chest. Outwards I soften. Stubble falls from my face. A cleft of African violet swells with the sea. My lifeline lengthens. My seat fills out. I feel my smell change – spicy, mysterious, so sweet I gag for fear.
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