One Night in Shanghai

The hair on his leg tickles your palm—up, up, up over his swollen knee, then dip beneath the knee, over the calf, down to the ankle, back up again. He feels like he hasn’t eaten in weeks, the meat on his bones is thinning out slowly but surely. Someday you’ll take them all on a vacation, somewhere in Los Angeles in a private beach house where the sun breaks the surface of the water like glass, and you’ll feed him Mexican food and coconut milk until his cheeks are round and pink again. That probably won’t be for another three years though.
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