Yulia by the pool

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thing about her, she loves bikinis, abhors swimsuits. delights in remarks about her taut stomach muscles. her bikini collection almost as voluminous as her lingerie collection. people have obsessions, she says rushing on in conversation as she sits by, what is rumoured to be, the highest pool in LA.
at a party in the Hills the other night she stood on the balcony looking down on that tall building with its aquatic hedonism. higher baby.
another thing about her is, she can’t swim, wont get in the water. sips from a long glass and sees a butterfly come down to rest down on the brushed steel handrail. for a moment she ponders and is filled with images of natural history programmes showing migratory routes, flight patterns and incubation periods. and as her thoughts go deeper the butterfly takes flight.
now passing above the pool she can see its markings. circling and looping. closer now to the water’s surface her heart begins to race. then the lepidoptra crash lands. she feels a stirring within those perfectly flattened abdominals, tears slide from her eye ducts. beauty wrecked. no point in a rescue attempt. feeling powerless.
she imagines that the water will wash away the colour and erode those delicate wings. time lapse style.
an empty sun lounger. abandoned. distraught onlooker.
Yulia, in body, stands decanting the contents of her Long Island Iced Tea into the pool and, in her mind, she is flying home to St Petersburg

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