Holding its own heart in its hand. Set at the head of a tomb of a prince in the 1500s, in France; Xie had never seen anything like it. Sensual, strange, triumphant. He’d thought of bodies like that before but for the first time there was proof, that someone else had thought bones were beautiful, too, he had been, what, eight? Nine? And already afraid of what it meant, to like something like that, to want it, knowing it had to be a secret. Jo breaks off the kiss, sitting up to open another beer. You all right down there? Yeah. His voice hovering somewhere beyond him. Imallright. Jo holding the bottle for Leni, tender. Stroking her hair. Xie on his hands and knees. What are you looking for? Gold, he says, maybe out loud. Leni’s laugh smothered in the side of Jo’s huge breast. He used to imagine coming home to a body like that prince’s. Lacing its fingers between his. How do you explain that. To anyone. He puts his face against the carpet. Almost to the bathroom. Just stand up. Xie. What. Seriously, are you okay? Yeah. Please don’t vomit on the carpet. I won’t. Promise. I promise. Swear. All three giggling. Pinkie-swear. The girls at his sides, holding his arms, haul him up and to the bathroom. He leans in the doorway, I’m fine. You sure? He nods. They close the door. He opens his fly, hand against the wall, dark blue tile, the closest Jo’s parents would let her get to black. The toilet bowl gleams. Everything pristine. The maid comes to clean four times a week. He snorts. Cock in hand. Hates the way it feels, pure flesh, useless. Look in Jo’s mirror. Tray of scented soap. You will be sick. You are sick. She said it, didn’t she, she looked right at you. Not a judgment, but an exhortation. You can’t make people see what they don’t want to see but it doesn’t mean you have to give up seeing. Finished pissing. Clumsy wipe of the seat. Sit. Sleep here. Head against the wall. It’s a body you want. Someone’s arms. Around you. That’s all. Tears on your face. You don’t notice. Night.