The water under the bridge is low and the peaks are shallower than they were before. I lean over and press my fingers into the underside of the rusty handrail. It’s not far to go if you walk sideways down the embankment. It is maybe forty feet down.

I’ll just go for a swim. 

I’ll just strip and go for a swim.

It’s cold so taking off my clothes is so vulnerable, pushing up my shirt and pulling it over my head. It goes down on the damp dirt like a silk parachute, my red and yellow camisole, and I trip out of my jeans, forcing them over my jutting hips which are always complaining these days. Moles stand out on me like fleas on a white bedspread.

I want to be like a fish. I don’t want to hurt. I want to be like a whale, something that dives deeply and makes a discovery of the depths. I want it to be new.

I’ve been working on this for three hours. Or, I worked on it for five minutes and spent the rest of the time trying to write it for five minutes. This semester is going to be the most difficult I’ve ever had, probably. I will be taking two workshops, which means 5 stories minimum. Here’s to not giving up my integrity! I feel like I’m taking crazy pills.