I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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Margo Steines is a native New Yorker who lives and writes in Tucson, Arizona. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Brevity, Tits and Sass, and the Modern Love section of The New York Times. You can follow her on Instagram: @redstateblues.
A man with the right scruffed-up beard and breadth of chest swaggered into the S and M dungeon that was my place of business, and twenty minutes and one grand later had my chin — still soft with the downy fluff of teen-girl skin — held steady in one paw while the other one flew at my face so hard and fast that I ceased to exist as the same collection of matter I had been the previous instant.