Just Sitting On The Beach by Royce
Date: May 23, 2022

I was sitting on the beach the other day. As it buried my tongue and coated my throat in sweet joy, the ice-cold sweet tea seemed like a cozy blanket on a cold night. My bare body and arms were covered in a light film of sweat, although an occasional wind would cool my skin. My pals were kicking a beach ball around in circles in the distance, the water splashing against their legs and their feet leaving temporary imprints on the soaked sand.

As he walked by, a young boy temporarily obstructed my vision. He was stunning. I thought I could gaze all I wanted behind my heavy sunglasses, but he gave me a sidelong glance, grinned, glanced away, and continued going. My heart skipped a beat and then became faster, but it could have been the start of a heat stroke. I drank some more sweet tea before setting the glass down on the sand. The ice cubes glistened, as dew formed on the sides and flowed down the sides.

I looked around when I had calmed down to see where he was. He was spread out on a beach blanket just a few feet to my right, shirtless and enjoying the sunshine, much to my surprise and delight. Every curve, line, shadow, crease, muscle, and hair pattern were noted. When I got to his face, he was smirking knowingly and gazing directly at me. He was aware of my thoughts. I averted my gaze. In loneliness and desperation, my heart started hammering again, faster than my hand could ever beat.

Too scared to glance back. too fearful of exposing myself to him, to them.

I did what I was good at. I didn't do anything. And I dreamt and daydreamed.

He'd approach me and take a seat on my beach towel. He'd confidently say "Hey," and I'd do my best to respond with a breezy "Hi," but my uncertainty and eagerness would show. "I'm Carlton," he'd say, and I'd lose myself in awe of the beauty of his name and the allure of his smile, only to be jolted back to reality by "And you are?" after a few seconds of me staring blankly. It's a good thing I'm wearing sunglasses to somewhat conceal my betrayers of thought and emotion, my eyes. I'd remove my sunglasses and introduce myself as Steven, reaching out to shake his hand. He would take my hand in his, shake it, and hold it. We'd lock eyes and become lost in contemplation, but I'd catch myself and yank my hand away, looking down.

We'd speak about the weather, how hot it was, and how nice it felt when a breeze blew through, and he'd agree. We'd find out that we're both high school seniors with one week to graduation. We'd be both astonished and delighted to learn that we'll be attending the same university. We'd chat about how much fun college would be and how many parties we'd attend. We would both agree that having roommates in the dormitories would be awesome. And, of course, all of this conversation would lead to him inviting me to see a movie with him at some point. I'd answer yes, attempting to keep my excitement hidden. He'd ask whether I had a pen, and I'd have one in my beach bag, of course. I'd give him my phone number, and he'd scribble it on his palm. He'd then grab my hand in his and scribble his phone number on it. He'd take my hand in his, close it, and say, "Call me. Otherwise, I'll phone you."

We would have a late lunch on our first date at a local Indian restaurant because we both enjoy Indian food. As we waited in the long line, he would get closer to me. "You're too cute," he'd whisper in my ear, and I'd blush, smile sheepishly, and respond, "You're cuter." But I'd notice what was going on and move away, pretending we were just pals. He'd appear upset and sad, and I'd apologize, and he'd grin and ask what I'd like to order. We'd order our massive burritos and sit across from one other at a table for two. I would chuckle at his jokes while marveling at the miracle in front of me. My heart would beat and skip like folks in musicals shouting about pleasure and love as our feet and knees collided.

After that, we'd go to the mall and look at everything we want but can't afford. We'd go to Old Navy and dress up as models, trying on things. I'd choose a pair of jeans that would fit him perfectly and highlight all of his best characteristics. He'd try it on and say, "Aren't these a little tight?" to which I'd respond, "That's kind of the purpose," and wink. Now it was his turn to blush and nervously smile. He would then choose a clothing for me. "This is a touch tight," I'd say as I tried it on, to which he'd respond with a wicked grin, "That's the purpose, right?" We'd be approached by a salesperson, or rather, a model, who would ask if we wanted to buy something, and we'd say no and bolt, leaving the pile of garments behind. While running, he would grab my hand and say, "Come on, let's go see a movie!" We'd run together, and love would give me the strength to not care at the time.

We were going to see a horror movie. I'd get the biggest bucket of popcorn and a big soda for us to share. I would jump at every suspenseful scene's climax during the movie, and he would put his arm and hand on the armrest to soothe me. We'd both reach into the popcorn bucket at the same time, our hands meeting, and we'd smile as we looked at each other in the dark. We'd get closer and closer until the movie ended and the lights came back on, bringing us back to reality without remembering anything about the plot or even the title. We'd be laughing like naive schoolgirls over something wrong after the popcorn and Coke were gone.

He was going to take me home that night. We would sit in quiet on the driveway, twiddling our thumbs, unsure of what to do. We'd finally lock eyes, and I'd smile nervously as he kept his serious expression. His lips would be on mine before I could respond, the heat of the moment fusing them together, the passion of the kiss immortalizing the moment in our memories. Our lips would part and we'd glance into each other's eyes while we tried to catch our breaths by some miracle. "I should get out of here; my parents might wake up," I'd say as I got out of the car. Before entering the house, I would return his smile and see him return my smile.

That night, I wouldn't be able to sleep because my mind would be on him. There would be a knock on my window an hour after I lay down in bed, and it would be from him. I'd open the window, both delighted by his presence and concerned that he may wake up my parents. He'd remark, "I had to see you again," and I'd embrace him and melt in his arms. Skin on skin would be a beautiful disaster, with each point of touch acting as an epicenter, sending shockwaves through our bodies. My eyes would open to the sunlight streaming into my chamber, and I'd notice the angel lying beside me. I'm glad school is ended because otherwise my parents would be pounding on my door to wake me up. I'd sit and watch him sleep, studying his calm face and watching his chest rise and fall with each breath.

He would pay me a surprise visit at my summer work at Denny's on our one-month anniversary. He'd use the drive-thru because he knows I'd be the one to operate it that day. He'd say things like, "I'd like some Steven without clothing, and some additional Steven with that, please," and I'd flush and giggle awkwardly. I'd hand him a special burger I'd made and extra fries at the window. "See you later?" he'd say, and I'd respond with a shy smile, "Yeah." His allure would never grow on me.

"Come on, it's our one-month anniversary. I was thinking we could go out to dinner and go to the pier and..." but my hesitancy and worried countenance would make him stop and plead, "Come on, it's our one-month anniversary. Please?" But I'd just stare at the ground and remain silent. "Fine. We could always get together at my house." His mother would understand and want us to have time alone together on our anniversary, so he would have the house to himself the entire night.

I would agree to go out with him on our second month anniversary. His face would brighten up, and he'd say something "Alright! We're getting there, "I secretly hoped we'd go somewhere where I wouldn't have to deal with the stares of familiar faces or the whispering of familiar voices. But he'd know enough about me to know that's what I'd be thinking. He'd take me to a posh restaurant on the opposite side of town, where I'd meet no one I knew or who knew me. But, of course, the former senior class president would be present during our meal, and she would come up to me and talk to me, obviously hinting at an introduction. ""This is Carlton," I'd introduce myself, and Diane would shake his hand and say, "Nice to meet you." How did you two become acquainted?" I'd rush to respond before he could respond, and I'd say "My cousin is Carlton. My aunt requested me to show him around because he'll be here for a few weeks." I wouldn't be able to look at him for the rest of the night because I was frightened of seeing his agony, wrath, and humiliation.

He would bring me a single red rose on our three-month anniversary and ask, "How about this time?" "I'm not ready," I'd say sadly. With a sigh, he'd remark "Steven, I understand your fear, but I'm afraid I can't continue like this. Every time we go out, it's as if you don't recognize me, as if I'm nothing, as if... we're nothing. This may be self-centered, but it hurts. Yes, it does." I'd gaze down in shame, tears streaming down my face. "Does this imply it's all over?" I'd ask between the quiet cries, and he'd sigh and ask, "You're not even going to try?" I'd cry in silence for the rest of the day. "Then I suppose it is," he'd say, resignedly. He'd take my hand in his, place the rose on my palm, then shut and hold it. He'd smile his final smile, one tinged with regret and longing. He'd turn around before walking out the door, and then he'd walk out indefinitely.

The person who originated the term "third time's the charm" would be cursed by me. I'd cry for hours, yelling at myself for being weak and cowardly on the inside. Even though I knew my shouts would not be heard, I would scream inwardly for him to return. But I'd do what I'm best at. Nothing would be done by me. And I'd let the rose to wilt.

When a beach ball landed on my chest, my thoughts were interrupted. "Steven, it's time to leave." My friends had finished their work and were beginning to gather their possessions. He was gone when I looked to my right. I examined the sweet tea glass. The ice cubes had melted, and the tea had become pale, with less flavor and zest.

I grinned to myself and shook my head, disgusted at how even my fantasies ended in despair, in dead ends. My heart skipped a beat before picking up speed. But it wasn't from a potential heat stroke or a handsome boy walking by; it was from something I couldn't place at the time—a constant, serious power that fueled my blood and senses. It was finally time to leave. Meanwhile, I was pleased I was wearing thick shades to conceal my red, wet eyes. I didn't want to or know how to express it.