The first step was the hardest. It wasn't the cold, but the looking . She felt like a raw nerve, exposed to the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees of the naturist campsite. Her arms crossed her chest automatically, then uncrossed. Stop it, she told herself. No one is looking.
She waded into the water. Without the drag of a soggy bathing suit, the lake felt like silk. She floated on her back, staring at the perfect blue dome of the sky. Her breasts pointed upward, her legs drifted apart, her arms spread wide. She was a starfish. She was a seed. She was Zita, but not the Zita who checked her reflection in shop windows or tugged at her skirt hem. This was Zita without the costume. zita dans la peau d une naturiste
It started as a dare. A whisper from a friend at a party: "You? You wouldn't last an hour." The first step was the hardest
Later, she lay on the warm grass, the sun drawing patterns on her closed eyelids. She thought of her closet at home—the padded bras to create a shape, the high-waisted pants to hide a belly, the scarves to cover a neck she thought was too thin. So much fabric. So much hiding. Her arms crossed her chest automatically, then uncrossed