A pale evening sun seeps in and bathes his aching body as he reaches out for the glass of lukewarm water his beloved Mala has left by his bedside. His throat feels raw from all those primal grunts and groans and his arms are heavy as if clad in cold iron chains. He lifts himself into the costume, musty shreds of a t-shirt and jeans bleached under the skylight then streaked artfully in red ink. He moves slowly, pours himself in, lets his mouth hang open then runs his tongue over his cracked bleeding lips…
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