![]() ![]() He stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum. The swing moved back and forth, creaking on its rusted chain, and it was like that old nursery rhyme, Little Jack Horner sat in the corner eating his Christmas pie. The boats in the bay were part of it, and the string section of crickets in the baking grass, and the ice melting in our lemonade glasses. She blinked, her eyes closed, her hips rose higher, and I did it again. And then with our eyes wide open but confined in that way my thumb slipped inside her. I felt the fluffiness of her underpants and pressed down, sliding under the elastic. Her green eyes under the heavy lids remained fastened on mine. And as we continued to swing, looking at each other while crickets played their fiddles in the grass, I slid my hand sideways up toward the place where the Object’s legs joined. I put my hand on the Object’s thigh, palm down. I was aware of the mound beneath her cutoffs rising toward me, just a little, rising and suggesting itself. Meanwhile the Object was very subtly flexing her legs. Staring into each other’s eyes was another way of keeping them closed, or off the details at hand, anyway. ![]()
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