Later that night, I cut the plastic boning from the bodice of my dress: no need for structure, over summer. There were bruises on my knees I didn’t recognise. I saw us all that day, all day projected on a big screen: the bathtub underneath the orange tree, crushed grass imprinted on my shins, your cat-like eyeliner, the warm sangria out of mugs. My feet grew numb beneath my hips. Saturation. I still felt overseen when I walked home, alone and shouldered. A black light flicked behind a balcony, a woman, neon-lit, crushed out a cigarette and turned to kiss, to give a kiss. This wasn’t meant to sound like romance. But it’s not ironic, either.
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