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| fantasy story of Anri Okamoto : |
| n suits glance at me once, but not again. Slow, dreamy blacks with deep-creased hands hold my gaze, and their faces don't change at all. When shoulders brush my shoulders I feel bruised. The lunch hour crowd returning from work in its good, painful shoes nearly crushes me, could have trampled me on the pavement. Assholes with ponytails and twittering shopgirls clatter up behind me and past, busy, sexless and quick. I stop walking. I didn'... |