Scattered across her bedside table like elements of despair
are the usual signs of life: soiled tissues and rabbit-headed
rings.
Texts from lovers old and new remind her that she's
desirable and her flesh remains firm: that it hadn't
passed its use by date.
Whenever she saw me she'd push her pelvis in my direction
with suggestive irony. I'd glance vaguely at the curve of her
breasts and the bareness of her arms.
On trips abroad she'd visit sex museums and marvel at the
polyamorous exploits of chimpanzees and the prospect of
being pleasured by robots.
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