The sand glitters in the setting sun, the ocean a palette of the sundown's colors. It's as if God dumped blues and oranges and reds and pinks and yellows all into the water, the oily paint floating on the edge of the horizon.
Catherina sprawls across her towel, her fingers running along the sand, up and down like angel's wings. Jack watches from his lounge chair, his manuscript clutched in his sweaty hands. He's actually nervous for her to see the product of years and years of imagination.
The salty spray of the sea coats Catherina's skin, giving her a wet gleam. The setting sun reflects off it, making her skin more honey-colored than before. Jack, paler than her, worries that he'll end up with a sunburn. He had forgotten to bring sunscreen, and had spent the day in the shade of a beach umbrella. Still, a day in the shade is a day under the sun. He'd gladly burn for Catherina, anyway.
She's wearing his heart-shaped glasses, and Jack is amused by the symbolism. He bought her his heart, and she gladly wears it. Flaunting her capture.
He stands up, stretching. Catherina hasn't made a sound, which is unsual for her. He half wonders if she fells asleep. Jack walks over to her, his feet sinking into the sand.
For a moment, it's as if every step sinks him deeper, and Catherina's motionless body keeps moving farther and farther away. The distance goes for miles.
But then he snaps out of his probably heat-induced daze and crouches down beside her.
She doesn't move, until she snaps her gum and blows a bubble. It pops with a loud and wet noise, and the hairs on Jack's neck stands up. He hates how she's always chewing gum and how she does it so obnoxiously.
"I want you to have something," Jack says, lovingly brushing a hair from Catherina's tanned face. "Something that I wrote for you."
"A poem?"
"No, a book. I finally wrote my book."
"Oh, really?" Catherina doesn't turn her head to look at him. She just chews her gum, uninterested. "I'll read it, of course. I'd love to, Jack." 'Jack' bothered Jack. She never called him that, usually it was affectionately 'Jacky' or playfully 'Mr. Hound.'
"Here," Jack places the manuscript on the edge of her towel. She doesn't move to pick it up, so he stands up, brushing sand from his bare legs. "I love you, Kitten."
She doesn't speak, just continues smacking her gum. Jack walks back to the beach house alone, wondering what was wrong.
YOU ARE READING
HOUND
Historia Corta"People are like hounds, they sniff out your weakness, play with your pain, and will hunt you down until you worship them." WARNING: in some chapters, not all, there is adult content. You've been warned.
