There is this fat man that I have my eye on. I have both eyes. I lure him with my buttered gloves, wagging, wagging. Shake my lashes into a field of black umbrellas, wagging. The fat man giggles.

All our perfect things are floating on the water. His fat foot, a yellow raft, his four toes, his fifth toe. A pink and wriggling bud the hydra arm of a toe. I lay there. He is singing row row row.

What did he mean. Elsa leads the floe and I am jealous, typical. My hair, unruly thatch of someone else's hair, lashing out. Fat holiday eyes. A festival of wet a looking into. Have a ball.

What I lack in a man is confidence. Water, lightness, puberty. Tiredness. Shut.