By Paul Jones
I touched her tender tentacle when she reached across the table toward me. Unlike what seemed to be her face, the tentacle lacked scales. It was more like a pig’s tail, rough as if from hard weather, and it danced in my palm. It throbbed and the lights in the dim room throbbed too. She gripped it with her free hand to restrain it, but it pulled away still hungry for my attention. She excused herself from the table, but her tentacle continued to flirt. With a twist, it snapped and tore itself off. It waved goodbye as we left together.
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