Monisha by Uzodinma Okehi
She’s dancing, dancing, keep in mind. Fluttering, yeah, jogging hips. Hand all down the crotch of her bathing suit, Khira, ridiculous, that’s trembling, shimmering thighs, like sliced meat slick with sweat, and glitter, she’s got you, from the mirrors, and not just her; hundreds, a thousand Khiras . . . I’d wake up, bathroom, or on up to the roof landing to relieve myself. Jerking off in the stairwell of a go-go club. That’s heroism! That’s purple neon, the bright, bright whites of her eyes. Forget Khira. Half-empty beer, down it, find a cigarette. We’ve got the jackets on, doors open at seven. That’s lights-up, hit the streets, for me and Benoit, not cold, cold, but smooth . . .
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