The second summer we knew each other, we drove cross-country. Somewhere in the middle of Montana, we hit a thunderstorm. I told Bruce how my sister and I used to run around our backyard naked in the rain. How we loved the feeling of slickness, of intrusion, the warm rain alive on our skin. Bruce turned onto a narrow dirt road and stopped the car. He got out, walked into a little stretch of woods, and began to strip. His shoulders, always beautiful to me, emerged round and smooth and shiny with rain. Rain glinted in his beard and the curly dark hair on his chest and belly. When all his clothes lay on the pine needles around his bare feet, he stood and looked at me gravely. … Back to Article
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