While lying across the poolside buffet table of a beachfront hotel (in between two pottery bowls filled with fruit), the Mexican flag under my ass, my right breast cradled in the gynecologist’s capable hand, I realize I need to dump Lance. We have escaped the disco, and it is finally quiet except for the rhythmic lull of the waves and the distant droning of Latin rock. The sky outside is bursting with stars. My thighs are pressed against the table, the soft silk of the flag making them sweat.
– Pamela Alma Bass