It's raining again and the trees are trying the stations of the cross, thrashing themselves and each other in some punishing ecstasy. They can't help themselves. They were designed to bow and cut. Don't stand close to me. I am a tree, too.
He used to take pictures of me, you know. Not dirty ones, but the kind that will make you nervous when a new employer says he'll have to do a background check. It wasn't really scary. Once you get your clothes off, you get used to the feel of the air on your skin, it's like you're wearing the sky.
He didn't hurt me. Well, I don't think of it that way, anyway. He didn't beat me. I think I really did like it then, the attention, and he was trying to help me.
He would tell me "Jane, Jane, look over at the window, I want to catch the light on your neck." He was really an artist, I think. He didn't show me the pictures, but he was so focused. And he always called me Jane. I used to get so mad about that. I'd say "That's not my name, Leo, my name's Fioraorsola," but he thought it was too long of a name and he could never get the rhythm right. I sort of think he called all of the girls Jane, so he wouldn't have to remember.