GRAHAM K. SMITH

the steam clears, Paz begins to rub her breasts with raw honey and salt while twenty dumbfounded overweight men stare down at her from the bleacher seats, their guts hanging over their trousers. Paz forgot to bring a bathing suit and borrowed a “granny bikini” from the lost and found; unsatisfied with its loose fit, she opted for a towel that has now disappeared. As the only nude bather in the entire facility, Paz is remarkably comfortable among the ravenous, Wile E. Coyote eyeballs. Our neighbors look in my direction with “get a hold of your girl or we’re going to take her from you” glances. Having known Paz for a few years, I would warn them to proceed with caution, because Paz would like nothing more than to start a riot. With deep, tenderizing motions, she continues to knead her breasts while loudly discussing her most recent romance. “I think I’m attracted to outlaws because they make me feel safe inside, like a little child.” She drifts into Carmen—“L’amour est un oiseau rebelle, que nul ne peut apprivoiser”—and then translates for her audience, “Love is a wild bird that doesn’t obey the law.”