august

beneath the sun

We never did the mornings well, did we? They were always awkward. The nights were easy - sweat and whispered words, passion and white sheets twisting in the moonlight. At night it was like our bodies conversed in a language of their own. The days, though? They were never as simple.

At night, I felt as if it would be your arms around me forever; I'd say your name and you'd say mine, skin to skin, nothing between us. But the days were always like this: a little shy, a little strange.

"Well," you said, as I'd grown used to, "I'll see you down there." You grabbed the keys, wallet and our beach towels, threw a last glance over at me, then shut the door behind you.

I changed in the bathroom, swapping my white nightdress for a blue bikini and yellow sundress over the top. It was the one I'd worn on the first day, when I drove us down to the coast as soon as school was out. As soon as your girlfriend caught her flight.

I know what you're thinking - I was a fool. I was flaky, a follower, easily led, easy to be with (and, it seems, easier to leave)...

I knew what I was doing as much as you did. I just didn't know how it was going to end; I didn't let myself think about that quite yet.

I pretended the summer would never end. I pretended you were mine; I pretended a lot of things, and you pretended to humour me.

I have always thought summer is the season of romance. Sunlit beaches, white cliffs, swooping gulls, sparkling waves. A hot, heavy, unrelenting atmosphere that makes everything hazy and sweet.

Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I took about ten minutes after you left putting my makeup on: concealer to cover the purplish bags beneath my eyes (testament to our sensual, sleepless nights), red blush powdered lightly across my olive cheeks. A glossy red smeared over my swollen lips (evidence of our kiss-filled golden afternoons), mascara to lengthen my lashes, a brush to darken my brows.

Embarrassingly, I noticed a bruise-like bloom on my collarbone, and I remembered your mouth pressed there last night. Hurriedly, I reached for the concealer again and covered the mark, though as I put it back in front of the mirror I caught sight of a one-sided smile on my lips.

All ready now, I left the house and walked down to the beach - you were in our usual spot, sat on the ridge of sand perhaps five metres from where the tide was currently frothing, drawing in and out and leaving little shells and strands of seaweed in its wake.

By now the sun was halfway to the zenith, beating down from the cloudless sky, bright and beaming. I settled myself next to you, and you wordlessly handed me the promised coffee.

I tried to catch a glimpse of your expression, but your face was turned away - up towards the golden sun, your shirt stretched across your broad back as you curved, knees casually up, interlocking your hands.

We conversed little, exchanging pleasantries about the vacation, teasing cautiously. I searched for a chemistry that wasn't there unless our clothes were off.

As if you read my mind, you sighed, stretched out, and pulled your t-shirt off. Just in your trunks and sunglasses, you reached for the sunscreen.

"Wait," I said, putting my now-empty coffee cup down. I held out a hand, heart beating loudly. "Let me?"

For a second, you looked as if you might say, oh, no, don't worry. I've got it. But then you smiled a half-smile and handed me the bottle of lotion.

I don't know what it was - probably your bare torso, actually, combined with the heady heat of the day - I wanted an excuse to touch you in the open, with people around, like we could be a real couple.

Also, I think, I wanted to mark you the way you had marked me, to leave some trace of me behind on your skin, some claim that you were mine. The strangest urge to grab a pen and scrawl my name across your back seized me, but of course that is ridiculous. I settled instead for sweeping the sunscreen across your skin, imagining each sweep of my hand could leave a visible trail, a real trace, not a few finger-marks or handprints that would fade as soon as I rubbed the lotion in.

I suppose it's really very fitting that, after that summer, I was hiding hickeys for almost a week, concealing the trace of you, whilst you went on, business as usual, my handprints invisible across your back.