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I can't tell you how pleased I was to watch your pageants around the pool last summer. I counted the days of the
week by your swimsuits. A charming yellow two-piece on a Friday afternoon. A glossy, seal-black one-piece on a
Sunday morning. A navy blue bikini and a white strapless suit alternating on Saturdays, when you had time between
work and the gym to sunbathe for an hour. Midway through July, you surprised me with a vintage style, ladybug printed
swimsuit, which only once saw the light of day. What happened, Clarissa? It didn't fit? You changed your mind?
You always change your mind.
The red one with the hole cut out over your abdomen? That one showed up on weekdays. I loved to see you lounge
on a pool chair and accidentally fall asleep, your arms neatly at your sides, your exposed tummy changing shade
by shade from a creamy oval to a mole-specked nutmeg. Stretched out that way, you were wonderfully long. On one
end, your tiny toenails in an old coat of nail polish. Way over at the other end, your sunglasses in tiger's eye
frames, black slabs concealing your eyes. I would look as closely as possible at the lenses, but they polarized
me right out, so I fell back to admiring the length of your reclined body. There was plenty to admire-until you
stood up, took off the sunglasses, and hiked your ponytail off your shoulder. Then, the lovely length of your body
was gone, swallowed up by perspective. Standing on two feet, you shrank to that awful, unflattering blob that people
acquire when viewed from directly above. Just the crown of a head, slightly hunched shoulders projecting from both
sides like hydrogen in a water molecule, and the foreshortened buds of thighs and arms pulsating as the limbs move
and the person walks.
People look so ugly from above. Even you, Clarissa. But I knew your beauty was not lost, it was only viewed from
the wrong angle-foreshortened is the term I find myself thinking a lot. Soon enough you'd reach the platform, climb
on, and dive into the pool. In the air, you would go horizontal again more splendidly than before, springing back
into shape like a stalk from your bony feet to your bracelets. After a few laps, and if the pool was lonely and
quiet, you'd reward my patience by floating on your back, so lithe and long. It's funny. I used to resent how tall
you are. Taller than me only by a couple of inches, but enough that you had to look down at me when we leaned back
from a kiss. That's all wrong. But from where I watch now, no one is tall. Height means nothing. Well, that's not
really true. In fact, I'm the high one, higher than Everest, and I can admire your length, as long as you are horizontal
for me.
I wish the summer lasted longer. You're not out as much, and each time you are, it's to dart around in a squashed
blob form. No more sunbathing, no more laps in the pool. If only I could see through the roof and ceilings of your
apartment building, I could see you sleeping. I can't tell you how much I'd like to do that. Unfortunately, Godiva
can't see through solid objects.
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