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He sends me a photo of baby smooth cheeks turned upward by a half-smile from soft seductive lips, and recalling the beard that formerly framed his face, a reminiscence stirs. A memory we have not yet made – tender and sharp, spun from longing and trust – gathers in gossamer strands, forming a clear picture in my mind’s eye.

Soaped skin and blade.

“I think I would like that,” he says.

And I smile, counting the days.


It’ll be a close shave.

© Mrs Fever – Temperature’s Rising

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