the photo album

she shows me a picture
on her phone of her
when she was twenty one
in a bikini with a banner
wrapped around
her tight tanned torso.
ocean city, it reads.
I won that contest, she says,
slurping on a bowl of soup, dipping
a hunk of sour dough bread
into the steam.
she scrolls through her phone.
more pictures at the beach.
glamor shots,
modeling shots. high heels
and tight dresses. slinky
and lean. nearly forty years ago.
she's on a motor cycle,
leaning on the hood of a car,
posing on a bar.
stretched out like a cat
in heat.
nice, I tell her, as she reaches
for the dessert menu.
split some cake, she says,
pulling at her oversized
sweatshirt with a hoodie.
sure, why not, I tell her.
I used to be a dancer too,
she says, did I tell you that?
a belly dancer.
no, not yet. Pictures?
she picks up the soup bowl
to bring it to her mouth,
pulling the hardened cheese
off the rim with her teeth.
one second, she says.