Such an impossibly perfect length judged to perfection by the lovely passing on the arm of her boy—the fork of the trunk, the central lodestone, a whisper away with every flutter, every thrust along the pavement. Eternal waves lapping the rocks, gently battering the brain. Monitoring along the way in the windows just to make sure, to keep a lid on it. Pleated denim calibrated not simply for the dead weight of fabric, but the see-saw rise, quiver and fall in motion too along the paving stones. How did she do it, so young and guileless? From his vantage the lad was missing the action entirely.
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