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DARTMOUTH

The girl in the red and white striped bikini lolls peacefully on the foredeck, sipping campari and soda. Her young mind turned taut with the spectre of age looming, but for now softening, soaking up the tendrils of Billie Holliday curling their infectious way out of the cabin. She turns on the deck to bronze her pristine shoulders while sunglassed eyes on the quayside steal furtive glances at her inner thighs. They wait like breathless hounds for the glistening sweat on her chest to explode into the mass of camera flashes. She leaves a mass of swollen and broken hearts in her wake, before the cracks appear and the paint peels, confining her to the pageant of the past.

 

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