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Rolling the chain between his fingers Rolling the chain between his fingers, he felt the dog tags tickle his skin. She stood half-naked before a warped mirror. He wondered whether she’d always left so much unsaid. Then again, a woman who applied her lipstick in one languorous stroke had little use for words. What would you swallow your pride for? His lips were parted, ready to query, when a breeze disturbed the beaded strands of what this culture called a door. Her shiver raised an army of goosebumps. She slid between the sheets, her lips ruby red. Warmth, he noted, as she tugged at his chain.
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