Rachel
lacks the enzyme. Turns bright red and warm when she has the least bit to
drink. Like her mother.
It takes me back to college dances. Slow-dancing
with a woman who has had something to drink, whose body is flushed and damp
from the alcohol and the not-so-slow-dancing. A hot cheek pressed against
yours. You move your hand to another spot on her back. And you think, among other things, play
another slow song.
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