She was rubbing my shoulders. “I’ve never seen anything like you. I’ve never wanted anyone so much. I’d never have given myself permission to touch someone like you before.” Her fist was somewhere in my head. “Where did you get that hair?”

I almost said, “I saw it in a fridge and bought it, along with everything else you like about me.” I wondered whether that would matter. Now, at least, I knew something. The world is different for the beautiful. They’re desired, oh yes; other bodies are all over them. But they don’t necessarily like them.

“Come and see this,” Patricia said, without a glance at Alicia. “A young man will be interested.”

I followed her through the boat to a cabin door. She pushed it. The room within was almost completely dark.

I stepped in. It took a couple of minutes for my eyes to adjust. There must have been about thirty naked people in the room, with a greater proportion of men than women. In a corner, there were Goyaesque mounds of bodies, lost in one another. It was difficult to tell which limb belonged to which body. I wondered whether some of the limbs had become independent of selves, turning into creatures in their own right, arms dancing with legs, perhaps, and torsos alone. There was music, talking, and—a lonely noise—the sound of others’ pleasure.

Patricia tugged at my shirt. “Let’s join in.”

“I’m feeling queasy,” I said. “I’m not used to the … motion.”

“Where are you going?”

I hurried through the rooms, corridors, and decks of the boat, looking for somewhere she wouldn’t find me for a while. For ages I heard her calling my name.

I found a small cabin. Candles were burning; the music was North African. There were oriental cushions, wall hangings, rugs, a lot of velvet. The style amused me, reminding me of the 1960s.

I liked the boat. Why couldn’t I get work as a deckhand? But I was annoyed at having to leave the Center, where I had expected to spend the rest of my time in this body. But I had got in too far with the people there. It was no longer restful. Whatever happened tonight, I would leave the island in the morning, taking the first boat wherever it went. I would go to another island and find a job in a bar or disco.

I heard footsteps. It wasn’t Patricia, but Matte, the owner of the yacht, in shorts, bright shirt, and flip-flops.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

“Am I in the wrong place?” I got up. “You forgot to set aside a quiet room. It was chaotic and I needed to get away.”

He walked right up to me and stared into my eyes. “Always ask first.”