my lips are swollen, and he is driving me to the beach to photograph them -- these big, fleshy halves. his camera is bulky, and i flirt with the equipment. a glassy circle examines the bruised corners, the stray white hairs that no one looks close enough to see. my mouth is a flower, blooming and closing with the sun. the heat in my mouth swells, and soon his tongue is heavy between my lips. while he is removing my clothes, i search over his shoulder to see his camera . . . drifting into the sea.