My Boobs

Topless Beach, Normandy The stones should hurt but don't. The tide's been rough enough with them to smooth them out. I drop my sandals by a stylish group of top- less 40s and their kids and turn off tourist tough. I shake my towel over the rocks, sit down and lose my dress, exposing a giraffe- print two-piece number that I bought in town. I used my card to dodge exchange-rate math. The act would change if you were here with me, it'd be a joke, like flashing for a beer, or it would be a tease if he were here, more sexual. Instead, I can just be. With eyes on the horizon line, I reach behind me, squeeze the clasp. My back is bare in a flash—then shoulders, sides, and chest. Breasts stare at the other misshapen spheres along the beach.