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His crude karaoke seduction
penetrated her heart like
a tricked-out DeLorean.

When he insinuated air guitar,
she imagined his fingers caressing
her jaw, her neck, her clavicle
descending into an inferno
of chords and chaos:
his strumming away at her
met by
her inability or unwillingness
to resist being played.

She couldn’t hold a tune
and was powerless to respond
in song:
instead she sipped
watery cocktail
after
watery cocktail,
looking at the melting
ice cubes for courage.

Some nights, she would dance,
accessing her primal side,
grinding in tandem with other
women in denim, waiting
for the song
or the singer
to claim as their own.

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