When it gets too stuffy in my bedroom and the stark white of my walls gets suffocating, I sleep outside on the grass. I don’t dream but I think about a head of messy bleached strands instead, stiff and salty from a September I can’t help but remember.
It’s sweltering today as well, a warmth that clones a tepid, glittering sea I once nearly drowned in. Or maybe it’s a grin I’m picturing, one that can magnetize the waves of a distant shore that’ll sweep in and carry me away.
The thoughts dissolve the moment I feel something cold touch my mouth. Sweet. When I finally lick my lips to gauge, the taste transforms. Something fruity like the bottle of tropicana I once shared with him, like last summer — when I finally promised to love myself first.
When I open my eyes, you’re there, looking down at me. The sky tilts, skewed out of frame. You’re mocking the daze in my eyes, lips pursed, holding a popsicle against my mouth that’s sweeter than the fruitcake I ate with him when I began breaking my promise.
“Thinking about him again, aren’t ya?” You grin, eyes focused on my mouth that’s refusing to take the icy refreshment. You poke my lips more, a tut on the tip of your tongue. “It’s melting.”
“Stop giving me your leftovers,” I scowl, finally snatching it from your fingers. It’s melon — my favorite. “Ditching work again to hang around me like a scavenging fly?”
You shrug, dropping down next to me. Too close for almost strangers. You move even closer and take a bite out of the ice cream that’s still paused against my lips, sticky now that it’s melting under the tropical weather. The world heats up again. Suffocating. It burns where your arm brushes, but you only smile down at me with those narrowed, foxy eyes that know too much.
You eventually lie on my lap, all while I’m still stuck trying to process what you’ve just done, why you’re here again. You’re thrumming, watching the sky shift behind my silhouette. A sigh drags between us, the teasing smirk turns daring.
“Take a look at this,” You turn your cheek and show me a pink bruise. A bud of a rose ready to bloom. My hand — although tentative — reaches out, but you grab me halfway. Your fingers are sticky too. “It hurts, don’t touch it.”
“As expected. You always end up with bruises.” You regard me with an expression that’s nearly unreadable, the words a blunt jab on the tender graze. You laugh.
“That’s only half true.”
A hint of a scowl shrouds my face when you bury your head right against my stomach, soft hair tickling the sliver of skin that your audacity’s exposed. The swollen red of your cheek catches the afternoon sun — a tempting apple rotting just out of reach. I, too, begin to soften.
“Did you make him upset again?”
“The truth pisses people off who are already defensive, you know that.” You close your eyes. “It triggers him enough to get physical.”
A part of me frays. “Doesn’t make it right. It’s still violence.”
“I’m used to it — and I probably deserved it too. I’m an asshole when I choose to be honest.” You chime, the sound muffled by the cotton of my clothes. “I asked him to hit me and he did. I don’t understand how you used to like him.”
“What an idiot,” I mutter, watching a faint wince ghost your face. The thought settles. I wonder if it also made you upset. This time, when my pinky grazes your cheek, you don’t stop me. “Put some ice on that.”
I wonder if it’s worth it.
You peek up at me when a warm breeze catches your hair, an unusual ripeness blooming on your cheeks I don’t dare point out. You smirk slyly, eyes in crescents as the canopy over us rustles. “I already gave it to you.”
These days, I find myself wondering more than remembering.
The bruise on your cheek grows more ripe — so I lean down to kiss the redness away, the lingering coldness from my lips melting at the warmth of your skin. The last of the popsicle disappears.
The afternoon saturates more under the sun, swells, just a bit more sweltering. My mind wonders as I watch you sleep.
Instead of remembering, the thought of digging my nails into your cheek to see the pain he left on you remains as a faint hum against the breeze — beginning to whisper your name.
The Edge of Summer
2020
© Rizu Lu
All Rights Reserved.
