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In the eighth grade Chris Lambla played the same song five times on the
turntable, "Never My Love," by The Association, and we danced in the
basement of her parents' house. Her breasts lived in the soft wool pouch of
her angora sweater. She told me that her mom had gone with her to pick out
the sweater, the skirt, too, and that she hated shopping with her mom. Once,
she said, she had gone shopping with her mom, had fallen asleep on the way
home, and had come awake, hours later, in the vault of the garage. She
thought she had been buried alive, something she had been learning about in
Tuesday afternoon catechism. The saints, she meant, they had sometimes
been buried alive. And she danced against me, the lights dim, the music
syrup, and I moved my hand to her bra strap, to her waist, and once, at the end
of the night, to the round hump of her ass, weighing it like a farmer judging
soil.
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©1999
Joseph Monninger and Nerve.com
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