Giovanna lies sprawled on a lounge chair beside the pool, clutching a plastic bag of lychees. Her fingers interlace over her stomach; her nails are chipped crimson. The blue latex mattress, blaring block letters “PEPSI” written on its side, does not prevent the bony rods of the chair from pushing into her back. Indifferent, she gazes toward the sun. The sun gazes back at her. Not unlike the rods, it embeds itself into her — more specifically, her pupils. When she closes her eyes, the sun remains a white spot in her vision, and she can romanticize the eye damage: before her blindness, Isaac Newton’s, and before his, Galileo’s.

A toddler leaps into the pool, limbs flailing like those of a puppet. The body drops and the boy’s head lurches upward, mouth agape, before the water produces a sickening crack that drowns his cry. The resulting spray soothes Giovanna’s rosacea skin. Then, that whistle of the redheaded lifeguard — the one with the freckles, who hates all of the children except for the group of girls that swims on Saturdays. Bikini-clad, they aren’t quite teenagers — still ripely pubescent. Their lively squeals are frequent to the lifeguard as the litter swathes itself in sunscreen, eyes roving over each other’s bodies for sunburn. The lifeguard whistles, sharp and dagger-like, but quickly the act becomes useless and swallowed by noise. This clamor of the poolgoers weaves its way around the poolside until words jumble and lose meaning.

Contentedly cornered by identical but deserted poolchairs, Giovanna reaches again into the plastic grocery bag and produces a lychee. The coral ridges of the thing’s skin give way to her thumbnail as she pokes, revealing pearly flesh. Pinkish rind lodges itself under her fingernail; juice runs down the side of her wrist, winding over the creases made by her movements. This lychee is plump. It reminds her of the round face of the redheaded lifeguard, and of the sun, which is still lightly seared into her vision. She places the fruit into her mouth, savoring it and carefully maneuvering her tongue so as not to bite down on the seed. Another crack emerges from the pool and Giovanna sucks on her lychee, lips puckered. When there is no meat left and the seed exudes a bitter taste, she spits it out. Rolling it between two sticky fingers, she examines its hairs — its short and tangled eyelashes. Then, she tosses the seed into the pool. It lands in the water with a negligible splash. Giovanna remains reclined among the clueless bystanders, feasting.