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On the internet, being the candy store of delights perverse more times than not, such a person was not hard to find. I came across a girl by the name of Candy. I wondered, when parents are naming their kid, and the best they can come up with is “Candy� (which, to their credit, I believe was an abbreviation (also, fake)), what do they think their kid is going to end up doing for a living? How many congresswomen or doctors or millionaires have a name like Candy? Her buffoonish name notwithstanding, she seemed nice enough. She was a supposed nineteenyear-old, and based off her pictures, an Asian girl, petite, as they tend to be, with supple contrails outlining the melody of her body, sprightly peaches ripe and ready, skin written in mumbled French, and a somniferous sea of alabaster for legs. Her pictures were not studio-produced, touched-up fabrications; they were cell-phone shots, which strengthened the prospect of their veracity. Although her eyes had been blotted out with a big black bar, as though the NSA thought their redaction integral to the security of the nation, her body communicated what her eyes would have: a sultry tilt of the waist, a hand positioned just so, legs but mere suggestions of the possibilities; all of which amounted to one phrase, enunciated with per48

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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