Morning comes with the thrum of the sea. You shiver at the remembering,
the eddying. Your ordinary body moves, makes coffee. Catkins cluster
in tall trees that telescope to the watery blue of the sky. You sit in a camp
chair and let the slow minutes fall like soothed pebbles. His ordinary
body shifts next to you. A languid breeze drifts over you. Your skin is aware
of sweetness, rumor of breath. Your eyes connect watching a dark-haired
couple enter the shower house together. They're in sweatpants, holding the
handles of plastic caddies. You read three pages. Four. The shower house door
opens with an echo that carries, fan rumbling like a thunderstorm across the scrub.
The man emerges, rugged in boots and chinos. The woman's hand lingers
on the doorknob. She wears a sweater, seashell pink, tight jeans. She stands
eternally in front of a mirror, combing her shoulder-length hair. He watches.
You can only imagine their knowing reflections in the mirror, the aftermath
of intimacy like a hangover—nebulous, blurry, rife with unaccountable ache.
Body
Photo © Victoria Manzoli. All rights reserved.
