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Calvin Gimpelevich’s debut book of short stories, Invasions, begins by offering us the literary version of a smooth glass of wine. We slowly sip and taste, walking through three vignettes of varied experiences of embodiment: deciding what to do with one’s nipples before top surgery, secret sexual liaisons while catering bourgeois weddings, the winding story that goes through a woman’s head the first time her girlfriend spends 20 minutes alone with another woman. Each story is a pair of hands tightly cupped, holding an ocean within them, ordinary experience rendered artful by Gimpelevich’s framing.


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