a picture of the back of a guy holding his surf board shirtless looking at a wave.
yes. this is what I did at 8:30 this morning.
Your feet squelch and the little rivulets pass over your abnormally high arches. You couldn’t really wear sandals so you would carry your ironic grey New Balances back and forth from the asphalt. You wouldn’t wear them in the sand, though, and the amber would burn the bottoms of your feet and strengthen your calf muscles. I worried about running shirtless; I’d read about rowing naked because of the wear and tear salt reeks on fabric. I didn’t want to peel off the freckles on my shoulders and hear myself wince. You would be concerned, I imagine, and the reflection of my tone of voice would be present in the masses of your dark irises. Your hair still smelled like your peppermint shampoo, and the salt in your scalp rained down like a candy cane dandruff ice storm, little pieces of white more flecks of matter than substance. The storm made my mother water, and I tasted the remnants of the bubbles in that Coke you made me finish when I only wanted the first sip. Carbonation seems to travel up and down my limbs and I had to steady myself on the rough board in your hands, like so many other things, rather in need of a wax. I wanted to over-warmth in my over-carbonated body to crash against the waves you wanted to challenge. I wanted to be fought against, pushed against violently, with spray and wet and ferocity.
