She removed the burgundy three-piece suit filled with the day’s sweat. She removed her shoes and her socks. She watched the others do the same. She adjusted her breasts, which were askew. She felt the wind as it punctuated her skin, her arms. She thought of John, and of his hair, which moved like the wind moves. She had discarded her family for him, but John couldn’t keep his mouth away from other nipples, pink nipples. Someone she didn’t recognize asked her if she was afraid of what was to come—no, she told them, I’m only afraid of drowning, I’m not afraid to wait. The person she didn’t recognize didn’t seem satisfied and they moved away. There were hundreds of them, mothers, and they lined up on the side of the river. In their underwear, their bras. They turned the suits inside out and placed the blue pants, the gray socks, the ivory vests, the burgundy jackets, the floral lapel pins, and the silk pocket squares in the water. They were leaving the suits; their hands had bled from pricking them with needles. They were leaving; it was their duty to do so. Some of them cried. They made their way to the mountain, even though they knew it would be gone soon, in 51,276 years. The wind was cutting it down every day, every day it got a little bit smaller.

THE ETHICS OF PIRACY