countertop, she lays. Succulent globe for my palms, poignant reminder of winter. Acid will waken the cracks on my knuckles like dipping my fingers into the saltwater at the edge of Florida. This morning she perfumes the room from a splintering wicker bowl. My fingers could claw at her dimples. Tear away the flesh beneath her beady cover-up. Expose her bones and find new jewels encased. Torn pieces of her bikini would spiral to the tabletop. My eyes dance across her scaly membrane. Blood orange. The sun setting and bleeding. I thought of the sea again this morning, stepping out into winter.