The beginning of a story…
Her temperament changed with the temperature of the water. He rinsed laundry she showered. He sold tomatoes, she bathed. He fed the dogs, she swam in the ocean, her breasts raising the smooth surface of the water up down up, with every stroke of her tanned arms. The now late summer sun had been caressing those arms daily as she kicked off the rocky shore towards the island. It always seemed to kiss her with the most passion before noon brought the heat of the day. She was always hottest in the morning.
She couldn’t remember when she began taking herself to that rocky shore, or why. Was it to warm up, after the spring had left her bones – and her interest in him had chilled? Or was it in the summer, to refresh herself after waking up in a sweat, jumping in to have droplets of sweat mix with salty waves lucky enough to touch her? She didn’t remember but she knows now.
She jumps in, pushes off, braves the jellyfish and fishermen with small boats and big voices, to reach the island. For every temperature her blood brings the island matches it: stormy if she’s mad, drizzling when she’s morose, deep violet sky when shes feeling macabre. The island compliments her, welcoming her with slight grazes of leaves and beds of gentle mosses, and she goes on emoting, waving her hair or flicking the buds off flowers. The island loves her, she knows that. The way they make love makes the grass on the ground tremble. The birds flock out of thin branched trees, startled, and then sneak back again. Because its too good to miss.
<The underwater city is a very sexy place. There’s more to come in this story…>
Dear rose. You would not beleive the people here. They are standing and sitting. They are playing with their hair. They’re noticing nothing but the beautiful view and their own thoughts. And the water is so relaxing its making me want to barf. I’m sitting on a pier amongst fish and chips eating tourists and young families, all chilling, talking mildly about going to find a bathroom and telling their kids to try the fish and to sit on your bum on daddy’s lap. Girl, its the type of place that doesn’t make you want to cut people off or throw your cigarettes on the ground but makes you want to yell fuck in front of the old ladies a bit. Maybe i just haven’t been here long enough. Maybe if I stayed that urge would float away with the going tide. Like everything else, the people here seem to know.
Something smells like curry, something smells like sea salt and diesel and something smells like self doubt. As I stare out into the vastness through my stringy travel bangs, no matter how much product I put in it I still have boat hair, craving a cigarette I don’t even smoke, I think to myself, I could really live here. I could.
All the sidewalks have indents, drivers wait, cyclists have their own lane. There’s no sense of urgency here, no one walking into me, people don’t move around like they’re wearing blindfolds. They smile at each other as though they’re genuinely trying to spread positivity to your face. I don’t feel like I have to apologize for being. People give me the space that I need, bus drivers talk to me, and I don’t feel stared at like I’m a monster.
The air is cool and fresh and filled with space as it travels through my nose into my throat clearing out all the anxiety and bellowing into my lungs and freeing itself into my bloodstream. It’s making me nervous. If you were here you’d be doing what I am doing: sitting watching boats looking and birds and the water.