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I WANT TO SAY that it was high summer. I want to say that the hydrangeas were exploding, and that I was in love. None of these things was true, exactly. It was nearly August and the hydrangeas were tailing off, brown veins seeping in at the edge of the purple clusters. But, you see, this was one of those perfect summer days, the kind that burns off all the inconvenient truths, and I was in Vermont with my new lover, Lil Thorn, and we had risen hot with sleep, slippery in the rude places, desperate to start rutting again. Oh how we rutted! Rutted and gasped and tried not to breathe our rotten breath onto one another. And then, toward nine, Lil shambled to the kitchen, with her big lovely strawberry of an ass bouncing after her, and fetched us some juice and we gulped that down and let the fructose rev our blood and licked each other until our skin turned ticklish. It wa
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