And Now A Piece Of Me Is A Piece Of The Beach || larry stylinson

17

Summer was infused with autumn. Luscious green sunk into unhappy yellow. Veins on leaves bled into the blushing colouring, the reddening skin. The air turned crisp instead of a rounded warmth, sharp at the edges, especially when the sun’s eyes had barely opened. The veil of royal blue was drawn down by the moon before the sun could warm, before the burning orange tip of his tab had fizzled to the filter. Warm maroon coddled the surroundings. Rain dusted the air, mottled the windows.

With autumn came stronger waves and uncontrollable winds, rain and cancellations. Vortexes of clouds, winds, dullness hovered over the coastal town, over Harry’s van in particular.

Harry always liked autumn, liked the quietness of the season. It was not overpowering like long days of winter, nor was it anticipated like the snips of summer. It was hardly recognised, not like the cracks of eggs and fluffy feathers in spring that were praised till no ends. In some way, he felt like autumn: just passing by without much attention, without much of anything. It rolled around every year, consistent. It was warm and alive, but something always seemed to be dulled to silence in the pit, at the root. Sounded depressing, possibly, but autumn brought thoughts and with thoughts came aches.

Life was slow. Life drawled on with languid words and heavy tongues.

But life’s plodding feet were still sloshing through the shallow depths of the sea and it was still getting along just fine.

Unlike Zayn, who said through a mask of smoke that he missed the smell of the sun and the chirping of the birds, Harry was content. He was content with how things were.

Business cut down but the waves fought through. He spent most of his time helping out at Crusoe’s in between lessons or clearing out the back room in the surf shop. Nick had an extension plan due to commence at the start of November, something to do with, well, Harry had tuned out then, so he was not all too sure.

One day, late October, deep into the twenties, a group of four lads trundled into the shop. They were a mismatch of personalities and a mismatch of looks, but Harry could practically see the bond that was tied around them. Harry was not even supposed to be working then, but Nick had had a disaster with the Nalu beads order and had charged to the stockists in a complete fluster.

Said boys approached the counter: two of them – the blond ones that looked too similar upon first glance – were muttering away, another was running the pads of his fingers over the many wetsuit sleeves, and so one was left to steal Harry’s attention from the doodles he was making all over the desk.

Harry glanced up, looking through his thick eyelashes but unable to transform his bored expression into anything else. “Can I help you with anything?” he asked as the boy fiddled with some of the rounds of wax and dangling air fresheners on the desk.

“Oh, yeah,” the boy said, as if he had just gone off into a total different world. “We were wondering if we could put up a sign for our gig? Like, on the window or somewhere?”

Harry glanced at the four of them. Gathered around the counter, it was pretty obvious that they were a band. Harry guessed rock, possibly indie, or alternative, if the blue streak in the guy who was speaking to him was anything to go by. Harry had never been in a band, did not know how they worked, but he wondered what the dynamics were like in this foursome. Was the blue haired guy the leader? He wondered who the quiet one was, the one who hardly said a word, and decided that he would take his pick at the tanned one who was fingering the rubber wetsuit material. The lankier blond one was definitely the ‘womanizer’, per se, and Harry made up a story that he had fucked the other blond one’s girl just before the band’s first performance. Of course, the other blondie would have been pissed, but then he realised that the girl had sucked off half of the footie team, so. And-