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THE BEACH IS FULL. IT IS ALMOST ALWAYS FULL THIS TIME of day. There are cars parked on the sand, some with their hatchbacks open, sudden buffets of beige and white food – the food of the people who come to this beach. The food of people who grow large and soft: children with apathetic eyes, women with chafed thighs, men with rolls of flesh over their hips.

There are Fours and Fives everywhere. Their eyes flick over my face, flick away. Flick back again. I love them for it, but the nerve. It’s the media, the music videos. Every wannabe Britney Spears thinks she is Britney Spears. But if you were to stick the actual Britney Spears on this beach with no handlers? After a few hours she’d be violently pink from the sun, and her thighs would be as chafed as every other girl’s here. Unhandled, she’d be burping up yellow Cheetos. She’d deteriorate from a Seven to a Four just like that.

A Four walks by, looks up from her phone. Small lips, big nose. Small breasts, a belly.

“Hey,” I say. I’m feeling generous. Bored. And it’s a lovely evening.

“Hey?” she says.

“Great dress,” I say. “It looks really good on you.”

“Oh, thanks,” she looks down at the dress. She blushes. It’s a simple one:on you. As if I’ve seen her in other dre