My friend pulls up the edge of her swimsuit to expose her pale upper thigh and asks if her stickbug-thin stretch marks are normal. I push the strap of my red and white polka dot bikini out of the way, exposing the side of my chest, show her the streaks of red extending from my arms to my breasts, lift my arm to exhibit squiggly lines stretching from my armpit towards my elbow, lift my leg out of the pool, rest it on the hot concrete to show her the stripes on my inner thighs, which, unlike my cartoonish arm squiggles, are almost purple from years of chafing. I stretch my leg to the sky, show her the light lines extending from my knee crease that I hadn’t noticed until I was shaving a few months ago, now added to the inventory. I lower the high waist of my bikini bottoms to show her the newest, reddest, claw marks on my stomach, the youngest of the bunch and still going through their growth spurts. I tug up my swimsuit bottoms, the way she did at first, to show her the lightning bolts expanding across my upper thighs. The July sun reflects on my skin and I look almost iridescent. I readjust and dip my feet back in the pool to cool down. My friend does the same. We sit in silence, watching the sun dance across pool water.
