Night Beach Read Online Free PDF Page B

holding
onto
    the
underside
of
my
breast
like
I
have
a
bad
stitch.
I’m
sure
Kane’s
still
watching
me,
    smirk
on
his
face,
so
I
restrain
myself
from
picking
my
bikini
out
of
my
butt.

    4

    Difficult
pleasure

    Safely
inside
my
room
with
the
door
closed,
I
set
up
my
tripod
and
camera,
aiming
the
    camera
at
the
antique
mirror
on
the
wall
facing
my
double
bed.
While
I’m
doing
this,
a
    low
mechanical
whine
shudders
through
the
house.
The
plumbing
is
prehistoric.
Kane
    must
be
having
a
shower.

    If
I
let
myself
think
about
what
just
happened
with
him,
I’m
lost,
and
I
don’t
have
time
    for
that.
Nor
do
I
have
time
for
a
shower.
I
want
to
catch
this
while
it’s
raw.
At
least
my
    room
is
warm
in
the
mornings;
it
smells
like
trapped
sunshine.
    I’m
going
to
photograph
my
reflection.
Me
sitting
on
the
bed,
and
the
framed
Brett
    Whiteley
print,
Henri’s
Armchair,
on
the
wall
behind
me.
I’ve
been
to
Whiteley’s
studio
    in
Surry
Hills
seven
times,
and
every
time
I’m
there,
I
watch
a
documentary
about
him.
    In
it,
he
gives
his
advice
to
the
young
artist.
He
says:
distort,
as
absolutely,
as
extremely
    as
you
can
.
.
.
you’ll
see
something
that
you
truly
have
never
seen
before.
And
that
is
the
    beginning
of
yourself.
And
that
heralds
the
beginning
of
difficult
pleasure.

    I
love
that.
It
inspires
me.
And
even
though
photographing
my
reflection
rather
than
    shooting
myself
directly
is
only
a
small
distortion,
it
does
change
things.
My
reflection
    seems
different
to
me.
A
stranger
with
secrets.

    I
set
the
timer
on
the
camera
and
sit
on
the
edge
of
my
bed,
staring
into
the
mirror,
    clasping
a
piece
of
paper
in
front
of
my
chest.

    I
check
the
shot
back
on
the
screen
when
it’s
done.
The
girl
in
the
mirror
looks
younger
    than
me.
Her
eyes
are
worried.

    Written
across
the
paper
she’s
holding
is:

    You’ve
changed.

    Then
I
take
Kane’s
condom
out
of
my
bikini
top,
letting
it
sit
on
my
palm
for
a
moment
    like
a
sordid
little
sweet.
A
reminder
of
all
the
sex
Kane
has
had;
all
my
dirty
wanting.
I
    feel
guilty,
like
I
did
in
grade
six
after
I
tried
smoking
for
the
first
time
in
a
park
with
a
    bunch
of
friends,
walking
home
with
a
head
spin
that
got
worse
in
the
hot
sun,
sure
    Anna
was
going
to
smell
the
stink
of
it
on
me.

    There’s
a
shaft
of
sunlight
cutting
across
the
middle
of
my
bed
and
I
place
the
gold
foil
    packet
in
that.
Then
I
take
another
shot,
focusing
on
the
dust
motes
dancing
in
the
    sunlight.
The
packet
is
blurred,
and
could
be
something
precious,
or
it
could
be
tawdry,
    but
it’s
nothing
everyday.

    I
upload
the
two
shots
to
my
laptop,
labelling
the
reflection
portrait
‘32’,
and
the
    condom
shot
‘Jealous’.

    It’s
only
afterwards
that
my
hands
start
to
shake
and
I
rush
to
hide
the
condom
and
    pack
my
camera
gear
away,
have
a
shower
and
get
dressed.

    Then
I
hunt
around
in
my
school
bag
for
my
Visual
Arts
process
diary,
and
sit
down
at
    my
desk.
Pretending
to
be
good,
even
if
no
one
is
around
to
see
it,
calms
me
down.
It
    makes
me
feel
virtuous
and
protected.
Clean
of
sex
stink.

    Besides,
better
to
face
the
other
source
of
stress
in
my
life
sooner
rather
than
later.
I’ve
    got
two
weeks
of
holidays
stretching
ahead
of
me,
and
in
that
time
I’ve
got
to
go
hard
on
    my
Visual
Arts
project,
because
it’s
due
a
week
after
we
go
back.
    The
problem
is,
I’ve
got
no
idea
what
to
do
for
it.
And
this
has
never
happened
before.
    Not