I stare down my reclined, naked body. Legs extended, ankles crossed, bay breeze gently grazing me. I gaze past my toes, over the shoreline, admire the orange bridge spanning The Bay.
He enters my sight, approaching. Instinctually, my legs snap to crossed. I sit, towel cinched around my shoulders. I’ve wrongly assumed an unspoken rule; don’t approach strangers to chat on a nude beach.
He kneels, fully clothed, one knee on the sand, casual elbow on the other.
Unprompted, he is a photographer. There for the beauty and inspiration; the orange bridge against the blue sky below cumulous clouds. I see my reflection nod in his mirrored lenses.
I shift to my knees, clenching the towel at my chin. The bay wind against my skin now like fine sandpaper.
His smooth words slither from the beauty of the bridge and bay, to me.
“You are beautiful.”
A photo shoot, in his studio, of course. Free, of course. One could get carried along, lulled in, convinced. The right, wrong woman might accept. A dangerous opportunity wrapped up to pretty to see.
“Drop by my studio.” He hands me his card. He goes.
I drop his card, bury it. I go.