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It was a short walk from the bar to her place. We were a bottle of wine in when she invited me up. It wasn’t our first date. It was date number three, the one where you decide if you’re going to have sex or not. If there’s no sex by three or five it’s simply not going to happen.
She stood before the amazing picture window of Manhattan and began to disrobe. The ankle monitor scared me at first.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “Just a misunderstanding.”
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