Over a hundred seashells glisten in a sand-streaked Dollar General bag
atop our ravaged snack wrappers. It’s well over 70 degrees in Niantic, and a
nearby family’s speaker is currently playing “Every Breaking Wave.” And then
there you are, tawny brown beneath the sun, black wispy curls stuck to your
cheeks. We’ve driven 30 miles just for one day of the summer. Heat prickles our
shoulders, and the breeze is slow to come. Never one to hesitate, you’re the
first to plunge into the sea. I linger behind. My dark legs stretch over white
shells that cut across the horizon. Saltwater curls over my feet, and I imagine a
mermaid tail. You, the impatient one, yank me in as all my friends have done
before. But you’re different. The waves roll in as a cold shock; when I shiver,
you hold me against your chest with our backs bared to the shore. Your thumb
lingers near my bikini strap. In your arms, I am weightless. I wonder, as I count
the freckles on your shoulder, when do we stop being friends? When will the
folks lounging in their beach tents understand what is unspoken between us?
To them, we are just two girls staying close to the sand; two friends playing it
safe. If not for your parents watching from the shore, I would kiss the salt off
your lips.
Curios CornerCreative Writing
