some description sans plot
It's late on a Tuesday night, just before four AM, and the city is silent save the crash of the waves a hundred yards away and the hum of the soda machine by the heated pool. She's three floors up, the only sign of life (living, breathing, wide awake life) in the complex.
The plastic chair cracks as she shifts in her seat. Her skin is sticky with the sunscreen she slathered on this morning (sunscreen that should have washed off with the salt water and sand and this afternoon's shower, but that still sticks her to the plastic and her cotton t-shirt and the hair on her neck). Over the balcony rail she can see the rippling water of the pool. The building across the street is dark, save the flicker of a television in an otherwise dark room on the eighth floor and the flood lights that illuminate the parking lot between them. Cars in patient lines. She stretches her feet out in front of her and pulls a blanket around her shoulders.
The water was cold this morning, so cold she had shuddered and gasped for oxygen in uneven, shallow breaths. Afterwards, she'd stretched out on the sand to dry, her back to the overcast sky, her forehead pressed into her watch and beaded bracelet.
Even now, several hours later, she's finding sand in her ear, her belly button, the soft folds of her knees, and she slides her tongue across a stretch of skin by her wrist. She tastes like chemicals and salt and a longing that's been mixed with her flavor so long she's forgotten it's not supposed to be there.
She squints out into the darkness before her, trying to make out shapes, the horizon, in the night. She can hear the ocean, the waves beating steadily against the sand, but she can't see it.
The plastic chair cracks as she shifts in her seat. Her skin is sticky with the sunscreen she slathered on this morning (sunscreen that should have washed off with the salt water and sand and this afternoon's shower, but that still sticks her to the plastic and her cotton t-shirt and the hair on her neck). Over the balcony rail she can see the rippling water of the pool. The building across the street is dark, save the flicker of a television in an otherwise dark room on the eighth floor and the flood lights that illuminate the parking lot between them. Cars in patient lines. She stretches her feet out in front of her and pulls a blanket around her shoulders.
The water was cold this morning, so cold she had shuddered and gasped for oxygen in uneven, shallow breaths. Afterwards, she'd stretched out on the sand to dry, her back to the overcast sky, her forehead pressed into her watch and beaded bracelet.
Even now, several hours later, she's finding sand in her ear, her belly button, the soft folds of her knees, and she slides her tongue across a stretch of skin by her wrist. She tastes like chemicals and salt and a longing that's been mixed with her flavor so long she's forgotten it's not supposed to be there.
She squints out into the darkness before her, trying to make out shapes, the horizon, in the night. She can hear the ocean, the waves beating steadily against the sand, but she can't see it.