I STAB HER WITH MY KNIFE.

              Yellow sun, pale cloud smears high in the sky. Crackling, glistening, breathless heat of beach. Six p.m. Lifeguards gone, family dinner time, magic hour between the end of Condo scam and beginning of Wheel of Fortune. We’re not alone, you’re never alone in summertime Wildwood-By-The-Sea, the land that god forgot. But nobody’s near. I untie her bikini bra, Rose lays down on it breasts up; if anybody gets close enough to stare she rolls over. Downbeach kids cry, Moms and Dads ooch and ouch barefoot across hot sand. I stumble chest high into the ocean, hit hard by cold choppy waves. One higher than my head knocks down two squat teenies, who come up breathless and panicked, clutching bras to their chests so nipples won’t peek out, laugh when they do. The not-blonde sticks out her tongue. “Fuck you, Perv!” she says, tucking a thick white breast back in. “Taffeee!” the blonde teasingly warns; blondes are always the shy one. Fun’s fun, but it’s too late for me to pretend fun’s possible. A wave smacks the sigh of regret out of my mouth. A storm blew through last night and pulled ferny seaweed and jellyfish to pieces. Fronds stick to our bodies like tattoos in brocade, jelly bits bump us like transparent marshmallow. They sting halfheartedly, survivors of disaster yearning to hurt something and die. On Fox last night Dick Cheney said, “I don’t think the sacrifices have been excessive.” Nobody sighed, nobody laughed, nobody said, “Fuck you.”

              I’m out of the water, hobbling from burning foot to burnt, drying off. Rose is on her belly, face in crossed arms, bra underneath. She wriggles when I deliberately drip on her. Nipples peek out. I switch on the radio tuned to NPR. Cokey’s explaining, “The President’s response is that Iraq is a test of America’s resolve. Some Democrats.” I dry my ears through the rest and loll beside Rose.

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