Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Thousand: Six Hundred Eighty-Seven

She shivers, then laughs. When she tries to reach for the sponge, the woman smoothly avoids the grasp and firmly, gently lowers the girl’s arms. The sponge, soaking wet, rounds the girl’s forehead, forcing her to shut her eyes. So she gives herself up this stranger’s expert ministrations. Rinsed, soaped, rinsed again. Never inundated, hardly even dripping. Patted dry, she steps off the towel on which she’d been stood and, looking at the rug as the towel is removed, the girl doesn’t even see a wet spot. The woman slips a currant jelly into the girl’s mouth and runs over

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