On the walk from the bus, I already knew I would be cold the entire weekend. I could pretend not to be, but my body would give me away.
So when we walk to the beach, I ask Stephen for “a jacket or something.” He’s wearing the only full sleeve he has. When we sit by the shore, I dig my feet into the sand, expecting warmth, but it only gets colder. A shiver passes through my body. I lean on him. “I’m quite anaemic,” I explain. To go swimming, we have to walk to the Lido, which is further away than I anticipated. I walk behind Stephen so he can block the cold wind. I hold onto his shoulders. I put my nose between his shoulder blades.
The thing about Stephen is that he is 7 years older than me, and though we’ve never really discussed it, I know it’s the reason we’ll never really be together. I’ve never done anything to make him believe otherwise, but this is not the biggest age gap relationship I’ve had. When I was 19, I slept with a 30-year-old because I thought it would fill a dad-shaped hole in my heart. After we had sex, I told Sam I was studying Goethe in class, and he added an assigned reading to my already heavy syllabus. “He didn’t make me cum, but he gave me homework,” I joked with friends later on.
On the way to the Lido, Stephen and I talk about our families and our friends' families. We talk about how being loved unconditionally makes you a well-rounded adult, and that it is something we feel lacking in ourselves. I feel that we are finally beginning to scratch the surface a bit. Stephen’s never really told me anything personal about himself. When he talks about his father, I’m so caught off guard that I don’t say anything helpful, but I realise that we finally have something in common. We want to be different from our families. This has brought us together here in Margate, United Kingdom, which is almost an equal distance from where both of us grew up. Him in Canada and me in India. Later, I wonder if he only tells me that because we are the only people we know for the next 24 hours?
I feel a sense of relief; I feel turned on. I feel apprehension escaping the part of my brain that it was so adamant about occupying. I want to tell him more. I suddenly feel like needing him for something. I make him put his hands on my ears to make them warmer. I want him to take a picture of me in this cheap bikini I bought in Bali. I want to hold onto his shoulders a little longer. At dinner, I want him to touch my ankle, so I put my foot on his chair. At night, in the shower, I want him to feel how much I need him, so I put his fingers in my mouth.
*
Everything is wrong in the morning, but I don’t realise this until we are walking to breakfast and I say something about the sleep paralysis last night. I kept waking him up, apparently. Still somehow, I don’t realise the extent of this frustration until the beach. Not until he says, “Do you want to stay on your own towel.” A question that ends in a full stop. It makes me want to take back everything I’ve said, unfeel what I felt. Stephen keeps his heart close to his chest. Mine is beating far away, close to the floor of the ocean somewhere.
When he asks me about the cold later, I force myself to say I’m fine. I can’t really even bring myself to complain, so I just say how nice the sun is, but what I really, really want is to go back home to the heatwave. Go back to bed alone. Sleep alone. My 4x6 mattress for me to sleep paralysis all over. In London, where the summer feels never-ending, where it is so hot it feels melancholic. But today I’ve worn Stephen’s shirt over my dress, so maybe the shiver will pass.
I watch sand fall over sand instead of reading my book. I watch the particles hit the paper like raindrops, making a sound like crackers or like Pop Rocks. I can taste the syrup. I can smell Stephen’s vape in the pocket of my shirt. Or his shirt. I watch the scene unfold before me. I watch the fat man discipline his son. I watch the little boy in the white hat watch his parents getting handsy. She is in a yellow satin dress. She has jet-black hair. Surprisingly black. She has perfect baby bangs that are somehow in place despite the wind. I feel jealous of her perfect bangs and jet-black hair, even though I have perfect bangs and hair so dark that my uncle once asked if it was real. Or, “high contrast,” as Doga used to say.
The child is now standing in a corner by the cliff. He watches his parents with a scowl on his small face. I want to ask him what’s wrong. I want to read my book aloud, like a lullaby, and put him to sleep. To distract from Stephen’s curtness, I look up to the sky and watch the seagulls fight the wind and secretly hope that they fail. I make these observations, and I don’t tell Stephen about them because I don’t want him to know. I don’t even want to look towards him because I am so happy staying on my own towel, and I really don’t even care what he’s doing. I want to have an inside joke with myself.
The seagull perseveres. Yellow dress walks over to child. Gives him a hug. American tourists argue whether they should have beer or San Pellegrino. Non-alcoholic beer wins. Lame, I think. Their American child throws a fit because Dad says not to dig in the sand. Woman in a baby pink corset dress with lots of Botox and a scarily sleek high ponytail poses for a photo. I wonder how long it would take for her hairline to recede to the back of that giant head. My legs are covered in sand. So are Stephen’s arms. But why should I care about that?
I want to brush it off — I can’t help it
I think about the small things.
I worry about them. Digging my toes into the sand while watching this family, I worry about the cut in my foot — is it possible it’s infected? Will my hair return to normal? Will he like me if it doesn’t? It may not seem like it, but I do worry about twisting and turning and keeping him awake all night. Yesterday, I worried about drowning in the Lido before he showed me how to stay afloat.
On the walk back home, I brush the sand off his arm. I get rid of any sign that I was here. I change out of the sundress. I look at the mess. Tissue covered in blood and cum, and the tampon with a yellow string he just pulled out of me. Tampon in the shower. Tampon beside the bed. I look around for any other clothes. I’ve never been more careful not to leave anything behind. I look around for any signs from last night. I suddenly wonder: where has it gone, that feeling?
I can feel the distance. I could have sex with it. Could let it cum inside me. Could hang it up on the clothesline in the garden. Could stub my toe or fall over it. Really hurt myself. Fill up the silence with my thoughts. He wants me out of here, I can tell. Feel like a child. Like the little boy in the white hat at the beach. I have a backpack on my shoulders. I am sitting in Stephen’s lap. His hands are on my hips. I put on my flip flops and walk out. Mamma always said I would hurt my feet if I continued walking around barefoot. Felt a pain shooting through my leg that night. Checked for a wound. Woke him up. There was nothing there.
