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Shabbat
We sat across from one another:
me strapped in
for bicep curls, him straddling
a bench, lifting dumbbells—
show-off—veins on his neck
standing out. Maybe an hour before
sundown. Sweat at my back, my
jaw sore from a face I made
without meaning to. What made that
day holy, or at least no
threat, compared to the night
we read side by side—first shoulders,
then knees accidentally
touching? His room
went dark while we turned pages
in that desert book. His father’s
photo looking down. His sister
singing on a record
that I never got to hear. We didn't
break one rule. But I remember
he splashed water on his face, turning
away from me, reaching for a towel.
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