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Lobell

Lobell always feels lost in other people’s showers. It’s a very womblike space: one of a few places where you’re relaxed and naked for any length of time, surrounded by warm water, cut off from the world. The way you arrange your loofah, soap and half-empty product bottles within that is indelibly personal.

So what does it mean, he muses, lathering, to borrow it? To surrender your own birthplace; to assume theirs, temporarily. To share an intimacy, disjointed in space and time.

Lobell sighs and reaches out for a towel. He should probably leave before whoever lives here get home.

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