I am a prude. Or, at the very least, I am prude adjacent with a healthy aversion to public nudity—especially my own. I became aware that this squeamishness wasn’t universally shared during my first trip abroad. Fresh out of our teen years, my newly minted husband and I crossed the Atlantic to spend our honeymoon on the Grecian island of Corfu. As our airport taxi wound through the narrow streets of the city, it was hard not to notice the abundance of billboards splashed with topless women. They were a none too subtle reminder of the theme of the coming night. I couldn’t help but feel the pressure of making it the most romantic and memorable experience of our virginal lives.

Hello again, friends and readers and people who stumbled here accidentally, to the August 2020 issue of Defenestration! We were all expecting our lives to be back to normal by now, but here we are, thoroughly abnormal. Normal isn’t a thing anymore. Normal is a historical blip, a tone box in a textbook from 2031,

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I hope that this letter finds you well. My apologies for using such an archaic form of communication, but as you know Earth has yet to join the intergalactic web.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Pastor Pete said as he placed his hand on my son’s head, the baby reached for his Christian fish necklace as it dangled over him. My husband, Joe, and I smiled at each other. It was our only child’s baptism. Joe and I weren’t exactly devout but we decided we would start going to church, a sort of tradition for our new son. The baby began to fuss as water rolled over his fuzzy little head, washing over my hand, cleansing me of my sins as well.

He stands up erect as she approaches the table. She is a vision of sea breeze and morning glory; her stride, a diaphanous runway walk. Subduing a rising blush, he slides out the upholstered chair and catches a tumble of soft brown curl as she folds into her seat. What a babe!