Bookended

I was standing on the balcony of my grandmother’s seventh-floor flat in Athens breathing in the air that felt like the armpit of the hottest part of the day: 2 p.m. The white tile and gray grout flooring reflected a flat pang of harsh sunlight into my eyes. The bright ground made my feet look dark and dirty. The tan lines from my sandals led from one chapped little blister to the next down the sides of my feet. People walked here so much; I should have brought different shoes.

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What are you doing?

We kissed like we had a thousand times before – mouths moving in tandem, sharing a space that only existed between our pressed lips. It felt like home. I caressed my hand down your cheek. Just a few atoms of my fingertips grazed the fibers of your dark beard. I looked into your eyes like I had a thousand times before. It felt like home. Then you said,

“What are you doing?”

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