We practice consensual nonconsent, the ocean and I. My wading into the surf constitutes tacit permission, and the waves beat me down again and again, weighing my swimsuit with salt. I may emerge gasping and stinging, but at least my piercings have gotten a thorough rinse.
I love the ocean. I love kitsch and lobster and docks at midnight. I love falling asleep to phantom swells beneath each rib. I have until Sunday, and I intend to soak up every lick and sputter of my precious half-week.
(Also this bathing suit is authentic ’60s and I got it on Etsy, so that’s pretty cool too.)