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She says she knows tantra, as I peel off the label on my beer. Shaved head and a leather jacket, I kick my Doc Martens into the linoleum. She reaches out to rub my stubble. I feel my hip bones in baggy jeans poke out above the straps of my black bikini. The room grows warm and noisy. She calls me "turtle" for the necked out head and armored shell. She eyes my fingers. I stop picking at the silver paper on the bottle.
We move across the floor, as if dancing to unplayed music. There is a doorway. The fact of a doorway. Inside the saffron light of Tibetan robes, sheets thrown across a cotton futon. I eye her hands. She says she knows tantra.
though we stand apart
our shadows touch