I pick up the book and look at the cover. On it there is a photo of you. You are naked, reclining, propped on your elbows. Toward the viewer are your feet, thighs, hips. From between your thighs your bare sex extends, gouging up over your lower abdomen, running up toward your breasts. It is puckered, lurid, and wanton. I hide the book under the table for the image is something the sky should not look down on. Later we swim in thick blue waters that tremble like oil. Shoals of silver fish glimmer beneath the surface, asphyxiating.