Safety is JoyAlison Stine
What secret does the truck know? Its spool of orange cables is destined for the underground. Its mud flaps are a maxim: Safety is joy. So it goes slowly. And she is walking when the man greets her with an open belt, his penis as if conjured from sand. The horned god has the head of an owl, the hooves of a horse, and man’s sex. Because how else to make a beast? In her mind she contrasts the body and description, his height—no higher—what he said to make her turn. In the mirror, the driver is looking at her for a sign.
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