Beach II

Beach II

The beach was burning. The sea was as quiet as it could ever be, only whispering sweet secrets to the masses that had gathered on the sand to worship the sun with their almost naked bodies.
   She was standing with her feet firmly planted in the sand. Her skin stretched taut over her shoulders. Slowly she was turning into a sausage grilled on a barbecue. Not long now before her skin would split open to reveal the juicy goodness beneath.
   The waves were lapping at the shell-strewn sand, only a few steps below her perch.
   She should get into the water, submerge herself and be washed clean. Cool her skin. Release the pressure.
   She couldn’t will herself to action. Couldn’t move her feet, her legs, her arms.
Heatwaves were rising off the white-yellow coastal expanse, turning the summer panorama into a mirage. An abstract mosaic of vibrant colors.
   No wind. No waves. Just sun.
   Today would be one for the records.
   She stared at the seagulls floating on the waves. Saw one steal a sandwich strait from a toddler’s hand. Heard the kiddie cry. Heard mama’s pissed response to the young one’s distress. Unhappy to be stirred from her worship. Voices carried over the swell. Indistinguishable by the time they reached her ears. It didn’t matter. In this weather they were all tourists.
   “Miss,” someone said, with a gentle tap on her arm. “Miss.” The pain of contact convinced her she was well-done now.
   “Yes?” It took more force of will to turn her head, focus her mind, than it would have to wake up at an ungodly hour of the night after a fitful and short rest.
   “You’re burning. You should really cover up.”
   She stretched her lips into something she knew didn’t look anything like a smile. “Thank you.”
   The person nodded, and moved away. Probably not entirely convinced she would do as advised.
   A deep sigh escaped her.
   The sun glinting of the water as if it was a multitude of greyish-green gemstones with cut and polished facades was a prettier sight than the murky cloud of smog that hung low over the city, like a witch’s poisonous brew.
   She turned around. Her soles were probably the only part of her that had not been exposed to the inferno. They would be blistered by the time she reached her bike.

~