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In the furthest corner of the bookstore she stands behind him, up on tiptoes, while he soaks words from poets, her hands on his back, on his stomach, on his cheeks while clerks go about their business And she wonders why thighs that she has seen naked a thousand times before never looked half as inviting as they do now And she tells him this, with a touch that only Thoreau and Wilde can see, listening to his new breath with a thrill |