Creative Writing

You know how in those paintings they show the beach as some lively-ass romance puddle? With faceless, toothpick-limbed ladies lounging on an unending stretch of beige carpet, their beige bodies separated only by the specks of green and pink gingham splattered on their crotches and breasts? Their sharp shadows laid neatly on the beach plane, and the bright half of their skin flat. Painted with a butter knife. Everything coated with butter. Their bronzing skin, their wrinkling swimsuits. Sunlight. Summer. European summer. Drawn on the afternoon like a translucent veil. In reality, beaches are nothing like that. Not here, at least.

I’d say I was fast asleep, but that’s just a romantic locution. In fact, I could see everything he was doing, no matter how impishly he walked around the room. Impish. That’s ironic… given that his “mischief” was quite sincere in nature. Many would find it adorable, call it “cute”. Some would even be jealous of me. But I found it burdensome. I had always found it burdensome, this fashion of life; celebrating weekends, maintaining friendships, tucking my hair behind my ear, smiling, saying “No Way!”. It felt like licking the froth off an expensive coffee.