By this river.


Chapter 7. The trees whispered apologetically as the wind drifted, without aim along its familiar path. In the distance, a siren came in and out of being, like a timid ghost. She crossed her left leg over his right and back under his left, with no resistance. “You know, I never even liked Brian Eno.” He smiled. He found so much to smile about when she spoke. A melody in staccato. She pulled at a lock of hair from under her chin. “He doesn’t talk to me, he is a musical mute.” He smiles some more. His arms bend and deliver his weight, with cumber, onto his elbows. He loves her presence. Her being. Her legs look so soft in that dress. That dress. And she undressed.


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