Cyrano is as close to me as my own skin.
It broke above the surface of the water and floated there. There was no extension of hip. No gluteal clench. No lift of long white legs and curled feet that might then plunge into the spine’s arch, pushing a perfect head above the chop. No hands to rub salt from eyes. No eyes. No hair to whip a spray. Nothing but a woman’s bottom bobbing on the water.
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