Kyoto

In Kyoto you attend a lavish, decadent dinner for which you’ve paid a small fortune to eat off the body of a beautiful woman. Like the others at your table, you clap when she’s wheeled in and make hazy murmurs of appreciation until the old scarecrow on your left abruptly lifts a piece of tuna from her throat. Next, a nipple is revealed. A red toenail. Now it’s your turn. For a moment you deliberate, then remove a rose petal from her stomach. The skin you’ve exposed is damp and white. The navel, a small crater on a soft moon.