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The beginning.

It is his eyelashes that I notice first. I have never seen such long ones on a man. Black and thick like a dark forest sprouting up over pools of light. I watch him from the back seat of his car. His blue-black hair curling around his neck, sweat spilling on his tanned, freckled shoulders. The tattoo of the fish that swims up and down his arm as he shifts gear. But it is his face that I want the most. Never before has god wasted such a face on a man. The lashes, the pouting lips, the ancient nose, the Botticelli cheeks and the eyes that go all the way back to god. Back to the beginning of time. Eyes that look into you and beyond, as if the Iris is on a long stalk. A wild flower burying into your soul. I want to look away when he looks at me, but I cannot. He drives me up to the top of the Malibu mountains, where granite meets the sky and the stars gather in a whisper. Small planes fly in the distance into Santa Monica airport, tail lights dotted in the sky. He lays a blanket on the b…

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