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Garage Yard

There is something incredibly intimate about walking down alleyways that connect that backyards of the houses in here in town. Last Tuesday, it felt especially akin to the moment when you slide your fingertips underneath the waistband or over the flesh compressed by the band of a bra belonging to a new lover. Midday, well past lunch but well before anyone arrived home from work, I crossed the Gay Street bridge and walked in the streets on the other side of French Creek. Here, town starts to fade and the houses start to spread apart. I meandered the alleyways, eyes open the world, letting myself see the details. The sun bright, casting heavy shadows. Here, I violated the unspoken rules regarding ownership and property. I stepped off the asphalt and wandered into the backyards of strangers. Satisfying and naughty, I smirked as I pressed my body through narrow passages in hedges. I looked quietly into the outside lives of strangers and took what I wanted.

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