Sunday

6

There's this very particular type of tree; I'd call it a cherry blossom but those are a bit different in that their flowers are a bit more like very small, pink tigerlilies. These trees, while similar in color, grow blossoms that are somewhat.. fluffier. They have a rounder, more spherical shape and more petals, I believe. These trees are the happiest when in bloom during spring, prominently lining backroads and yards alike, dusting rose-coloured scraps of satin around themselves like a halo, or a shadow, a personal spotlight unique to its own self.

The flowers on these trees are typically accompanied by small leaves, which adopt some curious color of jade green with sort of a slight, mauve undertone. And similarly, the color of those flowers, as bountiful and beautiful as they prove to be, is akin to the color of the bathing suit I wear; a dusty-rose two-piece that's more modest than what might typically be worn on a day like today, regarding the heat and the sunlight, and the urge, that comes with the day, to be sun-kissed.

Right now we're walking, and draped over me is a bit more than a mere swimsuit-I have a rose-taupe sarong laced along the width of my waist, one that brings itself with the rhythm of my hips as I walk next to the boy who's taken me here on this sunny stroll that's dressed in ease, and in gold. And Emery's here as well, in a dark tee and a pair of swim trunks which resemble that rose-jade color on the leaves.

I've always thought of it as an odd color, those leaves, as such a combination of pinks and greens strikes me as, theoretically, hideously ugly and out-of-place. Yet despite that, there they are, humbly dressing both those incredibly seasonal trees, and the warm olive undertones in the skin of the boy who took me here.

As we grow closer to the beach, the trees become decreasingly abundant and are gradually replaced with pine trees and beach grass; another odd combination. Maybe Emery and I, coupled amidst this odd arrangement of nature, are the most odd combination of them all-similar in the sense that one's beauty balances and highlights the other's. Juxtaposition has always been a favourite of mine.

"So, tell me again," the boy says as we walk, "why you've never been to this beach?"

"I have, just not in the summer. Not when it's warm out."

"Why not? It's definitely one of my favourites," he smiles at me.

"I go when it's cooler outside," I avert his gaze, as the day lights up the color in his eyes in a glow, like amber-tinted marbles held up to the sun, "it's one of the places where I go to write sometimes, when I need a change in scenery, I suppose."

"Does that mean you don't swim?"

"I do," a strand of hair escapes and kisses my eyelashes, but I brush it away, "not too often though. Do you?"

He shrugs. "Sometimes. I'd assume that school and work get in the way of relaxation time in your case, correct?" I nod.

As we near even closer to the bay, the cerulean tide begins to come within view; there are tiny speckles-children and adults alike smattered about the waves of both the blue of the sea and the beige of the sand, speckling and decorating the ground like confetti over a table spread, or chalk splayed over the blacktop in the summer.

And suddenly I feel a twinge of something-a pop almost, or a pinch-upon seeing the beach-goers all bathing in sun and surf and in the togetherness of eachother. I feel, slowly yet suddenly, an overwhelming happiness, and a reflection on the last time I've been swimming and sun-kissed. I'd been much younger, as it was summers and summers ago, perhaps with parents or friends, or just my own solitude.

The latter would be unsurprising; I've always, even since early childhood, been very to-myself. It allows for a sense of perspective, I've come to realize. While peers are wrapped up in any drama of the moment, I'd be found on the outer skirts of the groups, the gatherings, the main stage. It isn't to say that I was merely a critic, contently detached from the plots and characters, but rather the embodiment of an empathetic audience, in that while growing and developing with the characters, and feeling the weight of their plights and successes alike, I had the benefit of perspective from the outside.

It's evident that I've grown since then. While I haven't exactly outgrown the habit of hiding in the balcony seats of my own life, I may have learned since then to reside, as times, in the moment. One cannot live in the past or in any theory of the future. It isn't, and has never been, an effective way to live. The present can be fast-paced, intimidating, frightening and stress-inducing. However, living in the present are bouquets of sunlight, and freshly-warmed sand that's coarse beneath bare feet, and peach teas with lemon, and odd rose-jade colours stained upon crowns of foliage and skirts of late April and mid-May. And then there are those like Emery, those who live exclusively in the present. And frankly, I'd pack my belongings and move to the present for good-if it were only for the promise of him.

"I hear the water's perfect," he grins once we're here, "mind testing it out for us?"

I hastily shake my head. "No, no. You go first, it looks cold."

"It's plenty warm out here. Ladies first," he gestures cheekily towards the water that greets us from nearby.

I see kids run in and out of the surf, all laughing and chasing eachother, all taking advantage of the day from the warmth of the air to the chill of the water. "It looks freezing," I shake my head again.

"We'll go in at the same time," he offers, tilting his head diplomatically with his palms upward, "how's that sound?"

"Neither of us can go in until we're wearing just swimsuits," I smirk, gesturing to his shirt and to the sarong around my waist.

He rolls his eyes and smiles. I don't see the way his fingertips trace the bottom hem of his shirt ever so delicately, as my eyes find their way across the sun-stained beach once again; however, once they find their way back to Emery, he's pulling the dark fabric over his head, revealing a chest that's undoubtedly youthful, if not dewy with slight perspiration. He's lean-there's no chiseled six-pack, no ultra-defined pecs, but he's slender. He has a sinewy build with a sturdy frame, fostering narrow muscles here and there.

"You know, you're humbling me," he says once the shirt is off and cast aside, "one can only pretend to be so confident next to someone like you.

"Also, we're going in now. Ready?"

I look at him. "Like right now?"

He nods, grinning. "Like right now," and I feel his hands on me, one across my back and the other behind my knees. Before I realize what he's doing, I feel him effortlessly lift me, and begin to walk towards the water while holding me in a bridal fashion. I laugh; feeling weightless isn't an everyday thing, I conclude, squirming away from his grip on me.

The way he holds me isn't threatening. It feels jovial and secure-that is, until he's walking faster. Now he's jogging. And before I know it, we're at the shoreline. He steps in until the water's deep enough, and drops me in.

He chuckles when I scream, flailing until I can stand again. "See? Not that bad," he grins.

"Not that bad??" I face him with a shocked grin, my body and sarong dripping wet, "you hypocrite, you're barely in!"

"I'm in," he gestures down to where the ebbing tide tickles his shins.

My smile gets bigger. "Not yet, you're not. Get in here," I say as I grab his arm, pulling him down into the water with me.

As it's Friday, classes lasted only until 12, which allowed me to meet with Emery for a swim date earlier than we'd usually meet. The heat is felicitous to the cool of the lake, which makes my skin erect in tiny goosebumps across my limbs. The cloudless sky allows for sunlight to heat most every inch of my body, from stomach to forearms to thighs, as I've removed my sarong and used it to tie my wet hair. And as Emery falls forward into the water with me, we both slip under the water; similar to lovers in their honeymoon stage of infatuation, into infatuation itself, the water acting as the rose glasses and us both, the pawns.

As we resurface, I'm still holding his hand from when I pulled him in. I feel myself grin. Unlike lovers in a mere trance of infatuation, we don't let go once we leave the breathlessness, the weightlessness, of the rose; we hold on.

Perhaps this is more.