She waded into the water. Without the drag of a soggy bathing suit, the lake felt like silk. She floated on her back, staring at the perfect blue dome of the sky. Her breasts pointed upward, her legs drifted apart, her arms spread wide. She was a starfish. She was a seed. She was Zita, but not the Zita who checked her reflection in shop windows or tugged at her skirt hem. This was Zita without the costume.

She had spent forty-two years learning to live inside her clothes. It had taken only two hours to learn how to live inside her skin.

Zita, who never backed down from a challenge, found herself the following Saturday morning folding her clothes into a neat pile on a wooden bench. She placed her sunglasses on top, her book beside them, and her sandals underneath. The air was cool and smelled of pine needles and damp earth. She took a breath, then let the towel fall from her shoulders.

An old man with a beard like a cloud walked past carrying a baguette, nodding a simple "Bonjour." A woman with silver hair and a body that had clearly borne children was playing pétanque, laughing as her boule clattered against another. A teenager was reading a comic book upside down, draped over a rock like a lizard. All of them were naked. All of them were simply… human.

Zita, dans la peau d'une naturiste. For the first time, it fit perfectly.

It started as a dare. A whisper from a friend at a party: "You? You wouldn't last an hour."