He was frightened of closets. Storage closets, coat closets, supply closets: they were all the same. Everyone said it was cleisiophobia, but deep down inside, he knew if he was to step in a closet he would have to come out.
In the naked light she leans back, her bronze hand brazening her salt wet brow, as soft sounds stealthily tumble through her aristocratic lips. A murmurous shiver rumors through her majority as she gives voice to her admiration, “My, my, what learned fingers you have!” Woman’s ruin, he grins, a brute bruin iterating sybarite who, with not just his voice, presses, “Why gosh, ma’am, they don’t call it a southpaw for no reason!”