The way Little Miss Perfect tells it, you'd think I was head of a gang of street thugs when I was a kid. We weren't thugs, we were twelve. All we wanted was some prize money, or at least a bit of ... [+]
When you were two, we snapped this photo on the island. Back when your hair tickled your shoulders and a widow in a floral cardigan wrinkled her nose, patted your crown, and mis- proclaimed, "such an interesting girl." It's the same carelessness attending other glances, when lights merge to beams and starfish mask as stones, grinding and bumbling surf through the foam. "They can't run or walk," you sighed. "So they just dance."