Like everything about that marriage, it was
a dare. So after an American adolescence of body-
hate, five therapists, one Fat Is a Feminist Issue
encounter group (honey, it is), and a couple
of beers, we checked into a nudist hotel. Desert
warmth, high concrete walls, and I was probably
freshly waxed. Spent a poolside hour not staring
but quickly gauging. A decade at least: that’s
how much younger we were than the rest.
Even if I still cruelly spurned my homely
conveyance (and I did), I was fittest by far.
Strolling along the agave paths, milkweed
blossoms, smoketrees, we laughed about the last
therapist, who’d advised us to love ourselves.
The fights had frightened her. In the restaurant
the waiters wore only aprons. I placed the napkin
not on my lap but beneath my ass. We ordered
steak, which we liked black and blue. But this
was one of many good times. Back in the room
(rustic cabin décor) he put on his boxers and
I grabbed the robe. We read late into the night,
though the light was dim, and rose early to head out.
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