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The Bus Stop Pt. VII

And then I would remove her cardigan. She always wore a cardigan. Even in the spring and the early fall. She must have an infinite supply of them; she has at least one in every color. After that would come her blouse. That day she had had a ruffled pink one on. That one was my favorite. Perhaps then would come her pants; she usually wore jeans or capris, but never pants shorter than the knees. She was modest.

After that I could only imagine. What could lie beneath those clothes that I would never see? I imagined her bra and her underwear would match; she’s classy. I imagine her in light, pastel colors. Vintage. Faded. Like something you’d see in a Polaroid from the seventies. She has that kind of style. Beneath even that would be the indulgence of my passion. The object of my undying lust. And I could unfurl into her, squeezing my way through her body and into her soul.

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