The Linnet's Wings Summer 2014 - Page 57

It was our honeymoon, no one could see me, no one we knew. We spent days swimming in turquoise, napping in hammocks. I crossed my legs. My hair was curly. I was tan; you were burned. My thyroid had not yet eaten my unibrow. I leaned toward the camera. Of course, I thought I was fat despite the neat crease at my belly button, acute angles arranged to fit inside the frame. I was happy, the stroke had not yet broken my smile. Earlier, a man in dreadlocks had paddled in on a surf board, right up to the hotel’s buoyed line, to sell us shells and a starfish to place on the mantle, so that after your pink skin turned to tan, and years later when I smelled burnt toast all the time, every thing tasting like iron, we would remember: once I wore a red bikini.