Sometimes the intimacy of our connection seems almost perverse. I watch you raise the bottle to your lips, your throat moving as you swallow down the burning liquor, and feel as if I should avert my eyes – yet to preserve your modesty or mine, I could not say. His temple pulses as he clenches his jaw and I feel like a child who from her hiding place has glimpsed something she is far too young to witness. I flush, but don’t know why. I want to look again, but am afraid of trespassing. I glimpse things in fragments – sneering lips, an arched eyebrow, blue veins under white skin – and that narrow view makes each sight all the more precious and illicit. So which am I, innocent or voyeur? How can I know when I have crossed the line if every moment and every detail seems equally intimate?

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