Berenice slid her hand up the wall, in the darkness of her studio apartment. Elizabeth’s spacious floor of a house in Springfield felt like a mansion by comparison. Her living room enjoyed the company of arguably useless furniture: a cabinet with spare dishes. Not to mention a fireplace. Berenice’s home was squeezed in by the cultural activity around it.

The light switch, Berenice promised, would burn their eyes only until she found her way to the lamp across the room.

Elizabeth stood at the doorway, unsure about her shoes. She kept them on. As she watched Berenice’s leg brush the couch that was in fact her bed, Elizabeth felt the same throb that distracted her on the bar stool and then at the hamburger counter. Berenice almost knocked the newspaper off the edge of the coffee table. Elizabeth stared more brazenly with Berenice’s back toward her. Elizabeth noticed Berenice’s silk...

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