Abstract
7ihere's something about the Mediterranean coast (the good parts anyway) that makes people think of other somethings. Something about all those prime elements, something about tripping over the props of Western civilization at every turn: before you know it the entire landscape turns into one big do-it-yourself metaphor-and-simile kit. Build your own. Mix and match. This looks like that. That looks like the other thing. That rock looks like a potato chip. She disappeared giggling beneath the T-shirt she was removing. Then she reappeared, tits and all. And what tits. Dio mio! Mon Dieu! Mein Gott! Hoo boy! Oh boy! Sweet vanilla and fresh strawberry toppings. Two scoops-hey! Blessed be their roundness, their sweet perfect roundness, the way they rose with the raising of her arms. And this potato chip.... She was still giggling but I was gone. I was naked too and my emotions were starting to show so I scrambled across the flat rocks and threw myself into the water. The water wasn't cold enough by itself but movement helped. Bette was making me crazy.
Published Version
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