The Speed of Skin

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Raw Bar Amid the lemon crescents and crushed ice, a dozen Duxbury oysters, still alive – I pry them from their shells, dollop twice with mignonette, and swallow. After five I’m almost full, salt stinging my lips, till a sip of water brings my hunger back; armed with my tiny fork, I make the kill, spilling brine like blood. They taste metallic, oceanic coins harvested in steel cages alongside their mussel and clam cousins. What, if anything, do they feel when cracked open by a sous chef’s hands, arranged by size on a plate, left to right, sliding down my throat without a fight?


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