The ocean laps at Lithuania's ankles.
He sweeps the viewfinder across the cliff-face until he has captured his subject in the frame.
Poland, standing at the edge of the world, is naked and augustine in his own virility.
Lithuania readjusts the lens of the videocassette recorder and starts the film. Its a new one, though old in its own respect. A Sony CVC-2000 (that's what the box said when Lithuania tried to read the instructions) doesn't belong in 1995. But they found it at the market in London and, on impulse, had coughed up almost £300 for the foreign thing they'd only seen in magazine scraps.
Such strange, feckless purchases were an unfamiliar freedom.
"Are you sure this is safe?" Lithuania looks up from the recorder, and he isn't sure how he was weaselled into this - how he is gazing up at the russet cliffs of Dorset... renting an expensive car and bypassing a scheduled conference meeting for an impromptu Sunday drive through the English countryside - to film a friend who is as bared to the world as the day he was born.
He can't hear Poland's indignant squawk of a response from where he clings to what the locals call "Durdle Door", but the expressive flapping of his arms is revealing enough.
And suddenly he is flying; a great summersault and hands coming together in pointed formation and where did he learn to do that ? The face of the ocean swells to greet Poland and he is swallowed whole with a great swill.
Lithuania lifts his head once more from the grainy, flickering film, biting his lip.
It is only after several seconds of breathless silence that the Pole breaches the surface with a shrill whoop, and Lithuania nearly drops the videocassette recorder.
"You gotta try that!"
Later, Poland drapes himself across a great briny rock, his manhood flaccid in the noonday sun.
Lithuania sits next to him with his elbows on his knees, still wearing half-folded blue jeans and a knitted sweater.
The Sony is propped - abandoned - against the trunk of an ancient oak tree.
He lights a cigarette and his friend dozes.
A half-finished spam sandwich - a strange American thing - lies on Poland's bare chest, still wrapped in tin foil.
"I didn't like it."
"I told you you wouldn't."
The sun shines warm and tranquil above them while bees hum lazily about. Scrubby grasses sway in the gentle sighs of God.
And Lithuania knows that when they return to Poland's flat, they will push the furniture aside and attempt those disco steps again. They will listen to the Beatles on vinyl and Michael Jackson on the radio and watch their new film and look at the Polaroid photos they have taken this week and perhaps try to use the television again and watch the moon landing.
There will be new sweaters and cassette tapes and Lucky Strike packs and newspapers and books and words and life and reckless abandon.