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Thisbe

Thisbe crosses her fingers and the world goes time-lapse, so they flicker through the driving and stop at every red light. At the red lights they kiss. Kissing at red lights never ceases to startle the heart, even when you do so forty-three times on the way home.

Pyr doesn’t want to be home yet, though, so he slaps down a narration box and they’re at the park the next day: sunlight, and water, and the long weekend still ahead. They whisper pale pink words and lie back on the grass, grinning, to watch the speech balloons float away.

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