It wasn’t comfortable. The sharp, jagged edges of the rocks dug thick, red welts into our thighs, and with every crashing wave, an ice-cold whip of wind snapped at our legs. It was beautiful though.
The heavens had opened. Rain fell thick and fast into the rough sea below. Huge, heavy droplets making the journey from above, only to be lost in the water when they got there. It was sad- they knew no better.
I’d spent nearly every minute here this summer, and there hadn’t been so much as a shower. Now, it seemed, each rainy day that’d been skipped was extracting revenge. We’d not even made it into the cave before the weather turned.
“If you’d got here when I’d told you to, we’d be there!” she’d snarled, running across the jet-black sand with arms overhead, trying to protect her from the downpour. It was true, I’d been late. It wasn’t easy for me to come today. She didn’t care. She was frantic, I’d never seen her like this. I’d only met her a couple of months ago, but I’d thought I knew her.
She’d come into my life along with the sunshine.
When summer warmed the sand and I could collect shells without a jacket, I came down to the beach. I didn’t think anything could surprise me anymore, I knew every cove and every dune. But when I stepped down and saw her there, the excitement of the sea all came back.
It was an instant friendship, the kind you get swept up in and can’t remember life without. We’d climbed the dunes in matching dresses, and braved boating out with braids in our hair. It was stuff I’d been doing since I was small, it just felt different with someone to share it with.
I saw her every day except Sundays, when her family would go to the decrepit old Church up in town. I’d always liked Sundays. Now I couldn’t wait for them to end.
We had no secrets. She told me she didn’t really believe in god, she went to make her parents happy. I told her I didn’t fit in here, in this seaside town. And when we both leaned in for that kiss in the cave, as the evening grew cooler, I thought I’d know her forever.
Her parents didn’t agree, they said it ‘wasn’t right.’ When she told me they were taking her away, back to the city, it broke me.
I didn’t even know if I could say goodbye today. She’d said some things that hurt, stuff they’dtaught her. Stuff that cut deeper than the jagged rocks- and would take a lot longer to heal. But I guess I needed to see her one last time. Even with make-up running down to her chin, and hair lying dark and wet against her face, she was beautiful.
It was silent now, except for the wail of the wind and the rain.
“Summer’s over.” She whispered. She was right.
[Previous published online at Virtual Zine.]
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Biography
Amber Denwood is a queer writer currently living in Berlin. She hopes her writing can help bring a little more diversity to the literary world, and if not, then she’s having fun trying. Find her on twitter at @ambzld
Image: unsplash.com
