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Ethan
I’mshockedthattheshelter didn’t collapse on our heads in the night. Sun filters gently through the gnarl of driftwood, throwing bright flecks on my hand where it rests against the sand. Victor isn’t here, but my body is still warm in all the places I curled around him.
I sit up, muscles protesting, and squint into the blinding sea. His head surfaces, a long way out, followed by the effortless arch of his back, the forward drive of his shoulders. I wonder if he’s practicing for that awful, insane suicide mission of a swim.
Yesterday afternoon I saw a shuttered coffee stand at the foot of the path to the beach. As I walk in that direction, I force myself to follow the edge of the surf, close enough for the biggest waves to wash over my feet. If I practice, maybe someday he could take me out with him, past the breakers, and show me what it is he loves so much.
Fortunately, the shop’s canvas cover has been rolled up to reveal a sleepy young barista. He looks happy to have a customer. "Cappuccino,signore?”
“Si, thank you.” I hold up two fingers. Steam curls in the air as he forces lids onto two Styrofoam cups.
With a pang, I hand him three euros and drop all the rest into his tip jar. Our joyride is over, and I won’t need cash anymore.
When I get back to the shelter, the hot cups burning my palms, Victor’s lying spread-eagle on the sand, eyes closed and panting, with water droplets clinging all over his skin.
“You’re going to be filthy when you stand up,” I say, and he smiles without opening his eyes.
“Then I’ll just go back in again.”
Sitting down next to him with a groan, I press one of the cups against his bare shoulder until he grabs it. He rolls onto his side, head propped on his hand, and hisses in pain as the coffee burns his tongue. Of course he immediately drinks more instead of waiting.
I take the lid off mine and fan it. “Did you sleep?”
He nods slightly, eyes fixed on a family carrying armfuls of towels and plastic buckets.
“Did you dream?”
The breeze plays with his curls as he picks up a small, gray shell and starts breaking pieces off of it, lining them up in the sand, burying them. “I don’t dream when you’re touching me.” He says it quietly, sounding more sad than happy.
I want to know what he dreams about. I want to know what demons chased us here in the first place. I want to invite them to chase me instead, because he’s worn out from running so far and I’m strong enough to take it.
But today is not the day to ask.
He wedges his cup in the sand and reaches out, running a finger along my knee, tracing each of the bones. He trails his finger up my leg in a slow, wavy pattern, back and forth. When he gets to the long, diagonal scar I got from side-swiping a wooden fence on my bike as a kid, he strokes his thumb along it. I watch as he continues up to the hem of my shorts, spreading and smoothing his fingers underneath, gripping a handful of my thigh and squeezing.
“It’s going to be ok,” I say.
He huffs a sharp, dry laugh. His eyes, tinted with the soft violet of sand at sunrise, mock me. “And how do you know that?”
“Because I won’t let it be any other way.”
Stretching his arms over his head, he rolls forward all the way to a standing position, looking down at me. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him walk into the waves, fall into their arms. Finishing my cappuccino, I dump the rest of his away and slot the cups together.
That’s when it hits me: he didn’t see the coffee prepared, but he still took it from me and drank. I don’t understand, but it feels important, like that last stray, the most feral one, the one that had been kicked and attacked and starved, pressed into my leg and purred for the first time.
Cradling his cup in my hands, I watch him gallop up the sand, shaking himself off.
“What?” he says. “You’re looking at me weird.”
“Let’s go.”
“I want to put the top down,” he announces when we reach the car.
I shake my head. “Those things are a pain in the ass. Quit stalling.” Now that it’s really time to go back, no more excuses, I just want to get it over with. I want to get yelled at, move on, and start the process of convincing myself that I’m ready to go back to a normal life.
“Top down, top down, top down,” he chants, bouncing his hands off the soft top in time to his words. He pumps his fist when I give in. The car is old, practically vintage, but the convertible roof seems to be a recent modification. When I hold down the button on the dashboard, the roof hums and begins to retract, folding in on itself.
