She fibs about the time the photograph was taken,
when she was thinking, It’s nice and warm here. She
slices the cucumber into tissue-thin coins. Fast-
faster-faster-fastest, until nothing is left. She places
them on her chin, cheeks, her eyelids. The aftermath
around her a faint sugariness.

Visibility, of course, would be poor.

Staring at her face blotted by circles, the eights turn
into nines.