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She wrapped him around me, like cellophane,
and concealed the clammy sophomore within.
Sporting a black cape and broad-brimmed hat,
he stepped into her swoon, the glide and dip
of tango rhythms in her dorm room,
and handed her moist yellow roses.
My date yearned for the man
pasted around me, the one reflected in her eyes.
When I stroked her fingers, she grew giddy
then told me I was going too fast. When I paused
to talk with her, she sneered,
I’m beginning to think you’re gay.