I take the pictures from her hands. “Thank you so much, Margot.” I slip a disk into the computer in the tiny office I share in the hotel across the garden. Oh my god. Oh my god. I have to eject the disc immediately I am so mortified. I see a whale, a monster. My arms look like Ari’s homemade sausages, overstuffed in puckering skin. The flesh of my belly folds over my jeans. I wish I could unsee these photos, take it all back. Why did Margot say I looked good when I look grotesque?
