Mouth BayNolan Knight
As a child, my dreams were infinite as sunray glitter across Santa Monica Bay. I can see them all now, a legion of sparkles ignited then killed, out past the break. One flashes gymnastic glory: eight years old: summer Olympics fever. Another glimmers horseback rides through Palos Verdes bridle paths, age ten. But all those dreams died when I hit thirteen, as if stray kelp shackled my ankles, dragging me beneath crashing waves. Was it really love when it came to that boy? Then Missy: six pounds, eight ounces — nineteen inches long. I sank like a moon rock: cool, hard, weightless. That’s about it for this pretty b***h — trapped in coral for so long, have to check my damn throat for gills …
“You okay there, Randi?”
Wet hands drop from my neck. “What?”
The goatee boun
