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Enzo drove his mother's black four-door, some Lexus with a long hood and dark windows. He kept the windows open to hear the engine and everyone outside. Once every warmer season, his skin matched perfectly the beige interior of the car, so at a distance you'd think the car was driving itself, the way his shoulders blended into the seats. In a few days, he'd likely be a grade darker.
He asked his lovers if they would ever smell their own socks when they took them off at the end of some hot day. Most lovers, hoping to save face, would tell him no. They laughed and mistook Enzo's replies for jest when he told them he wouldn't be with a liar. Enzo was convinced that everybody took part in such a ritual, that everybody had to assess their own damage before they bathed or whenever they undressed. Enzo's concern was whether they were open about it or not. "Some fuckin' judge of character," Baby would tell him.
As he peeled off, the gold letters on the rear panel of the car caught the white sun and threw it back into the squinting eyes of those whom he left curbside. It was a day for water.