She didn't want him to stray too far away from her body. From a distance, he would be able to study her skin, the sad, tiredness of ti, wilting away from her youth. The idea that he might touch the pale stretched scars on her hips and judge her badly for it added a layer of complication to the event. As if it wasn't complicated enough without the shadow of her insecurities. His finger traced a line between the little cluster of moles on her back. A constellation. He was making some kind of picture of them. The water-bearer, the Adulterer, the Hag. She closed her eyes and rested her hand on his hip. A fleshy hip, girlish. He was not the poster-boy for youthful masculinity himself.
Her own students were mostly tall and lean and athletic. They grew their hair long, carried copies of Camus or the poetry of Byron conspicuously protruding from their back pockets.
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