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prospect heights.

It was a paternal kiss, rather than anything else.

I don’t like it when you kiss me in public.

It wasn’t even a kiss proper. My lips barely touched your forehead.

We got shouted at anyway.

Little shit punk. We must ignore them.

You think we got shouted at because we’re both pretty back-row choir boys, or because you’re a black stallion and I’ve got piggy pink skin, or because you’re lean and muscular and I’ve got at least fifty pounds to lose?

Little shit punk. I don’t know. C’mon, less go. Sign says ‘walk.’


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