hair or my blouse, bounce off my shoulder and swerve back to the hive, would turn myself inside out for this deliberate man, for his fingers slow against the small hairs on my spine, gilded in shadowed bands in the early evening before fall comes.
Ruth Foley | High Tide at Bee Beach
of the bowl. High tide at Bee Beach, he says, and I, standing in the neglected grass while the ladies investigate my
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