Skin of the Soul
Copyright© 2025 by Danielle Stories
Chapter 2: New Normal
The high from the victory lasted for days, a bright, effervescent bubble that made even the most mundane tasks feel like a celebration. The local ordinance was swiftly challenged by Mariam and, with the state law now on the books, was rendered null and void. Preston Hutchinson, his political capital spent and his connections to Francesco now a public liability, became a ghost in city hall, quietly finishing his term without seeking re-election.
But life, as it does, settled into a new rhythm. The headlines faded. The news vans packed up and left. The national spotlight moved on to the next controversy. I was left with the quiet, profound reality of simply living the freedom I had fought for.
The first time I walked from my house to the sand at Croatan Beach, completely unclothed, with the state PF law firmly in place, was ... anticlimactic and it was perfect.
It was a Tuesday morning. The beach was nearly empty, just a few dog walkers and a dedicated surfer in a wetsuit battling the waves. The air was cool, the sky a soft, hazy blue. I left my towel on the boardwalk, stepped out of my sandals, and walked onto the sand.
No gasps. No cameras. No one called the police.
The sand was gritty and cool under my feet. The wind, unimpeded, whispered secrets against my skin. I waded into the shock of the Atlantic, the water a biting, glorious embrace. I floated on my back, looking up at the vast sky, and I cried. They were tears of release, of a tension I had been holding for so long I’d forgotten it was there. This was it. Not a protest. Not a statement. Just a woman, on a beach, in the ocean. It was breathtakingly normal.
When I walked back to my towel, an older woman with a Labrador retriever gave me a small, friendly nod. “Water’s bracing today, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect,” I replied, and I meant it.
This was my new normal. Running errands in a sarong I’d often untie once I was in the car, the feel of the leather seats against my skin a small, private joy. Working from my laptop at a shaded table outside Three Ships Coffee, the breeze is my only companion. The world hadn’t ended. It had just opened up.
My relationship with Abdullahi unfolded with the same gentle, unforced rhythm. Our dates were walks along the Cape Henry Trail, conversations on my porch that lasted long into the night, and quiet dinners where the topic was just ... us. He never treated my nudity as a fetish or a quirk. It was just a part of me, like my love for graphic design or my stubborn streak. He saw the person, not the principle.
One evening, we were cooking together in my kitchen. I was chopping vegetables, and he was seasoning fish. We were both naked, moving around each other in a comfortable, domestic dance. It wasn’t charged with political meaning or sexual tension. It was just ... easy.
“You’re staring,” I said, without looking up from the bell peppers.
“I’m appreciating the view,” he replied, his voice warm, “Your knife skills are terrifyingly good.”
I laughed. This was intimacy. Not the dramatic, world-altering kind, but the kind built on shared silence and silly jokes. It was the kind of love that felt like a home I never knew I was missing.
But the past never fully releases its grip. A few weeks after the law passed, I received a formal, cream-colored envelope. Inside was an invitation to the grand opening of “Naturé,” Francesco Mathews’s new “exclusive, clothing-optional lounge” on the oceanfront. The invite featured a stylized, silhouetted figure against a sunset. It was tasteful. It was predatory.
He had made good on his threat. He was commercializing it.
I showed the invite to Abdullahi. His lips tightened. “He’s a vulture. Don’t go.”
“I have to,” I said, a strange certainty settling over me.
“Why? To give him the satisfaction of seeing you? To let him provoke you?”
“No,” I said, looking out the window at the setting sun. “To show him that he has no power over me. To close that door for myself.”
The night of the opening, I didn’t wear a wrap or a sarong. I didn’t make a grand entrance. I simply walked from my car to the velvet rope, my head high. The bouncer, a massive man in a black suit, looked startled for a moment before checking a list and unhooking the rope.
“Ms. Hoover. Mr. Mathews was hoping you’d come.”
The inside of Naturé was exactly what I expected: opulent, artificial, and deeply cynical. Plush white loungers, strategically placed silk drapes, and a clientele that was less about authenticity and more about voyeurism and being seen. People wore designer clothes or artfully arranged scraps of silk. They held cocktails that cost twenty dollars and watched each other with a detached, jaded air.
Francesco saw me immediately. He was holding court at the center of the room, but he excused himself and glided over, a triumphant smirk on his face.
“Kiera. I knew you couldn’t stay away. See? I told you we could control the narrative.” He gestured around the room. “This is the future. Curated. Beautiful. Profitable.”
I looked around, not at the decor, but at the people. I saw a young woman, her body tense and self-conscious in a tiny bikini, being appraised by an older man in a blazer. I saw the performance of liberation, not the real thing.
“This isn’t the future, Francesco,” I said, my voice calm. “This is just another cage. A prettier one, but a cage all the same. You’ve taken freedom and turned it into a product. You don’t understand it at all.”
His smirk vanished. “I understand the market. The market wants what I’m selling.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.