It’s funny; the unprotected European beach sex with a stranger isn’t even the interesting part, really. Better: the next day when we wandered back, I in the same dress and greasy-haired and fatter than all the other women on the beach. Better: my stubbing my toe on the wooden path down to the water, the resultant blood blister that lasted back to America. Better when we found the same spot in the daylight and he said, "Ah, look, part of the beach is missing. It is at home in bed." Maybe still.