I remember thinking there was nothing but air beneath your jeans , less than a Ken doll, and when I went to touch there by accident, realizing, oh no, I was way too old to be so dumb. Your skin went silent with embarrassment, the goosebumps quieted, the blood rushing somewhere else, I could tell, even though you were brown, and I pretended nothing happened.
Sweat beads gathered, all in a row, a moist military above your lips, and I didn’t know how to tell you that it was making me gag, always too squeamish with the facts of the body. Your skin a shining reminder of how burdened I feel in this body, feeding it, putting it to bed.
I sat on the beach in the grey and the cold of late fall Massachusetts, aware of what a cliche I was being, the sand seemingly barren of all life but me, and told myself lies about myself. I don’t recommend it.