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She’s gone from sight for a few seconds.
I wait patiently to see her cross on the other side, and she does, maneuvering her way out and exiting right on time.
Surfing back to the shore, she catches small waves and rides them with expertise.
As she steps on the shore, she leaps in place, seeming happy about her performance.
Damn! That was phenomenal.
The bitter sip on my tongue warms my chest.
Pink?
It’s quite a large distance but now I can focus more on the details.
Holy hell!
My eyes bug out of their sockets like a cartoon character.
Lenny.
I swear this girl is a piñata, concealing all sorts of surprises inside her.
She’s pacing with my board—which I now recognize—tucked underneath her armpit, droplets of water cascading down her sun-kissed skin.
Her tiny white bikini accentuates her long legs, slim waist, and sculpts her flawless body. Exposing more tattoos on her rib and her chest.
Yesterday’s revelation and her mild meltdown never happened. I dig the power she has to gear up and move on. Having a weak moment doesn’t define anyone. Sometimes it’s necessary to let a part go to be able to carry on.
“The waves are sick today.” A full grin crosses her cheery expression.
She catches the surfboard by its tail and puts it against the fence, my gaze trails downward where the outlines of two waves, a van, and a sun are tattooed on her calf.
Sneaking glances at my shirtless figure, she smirks to herself, climbing up the four grades of the porch.
“Glad to see you’re having fun. You’re a highly skilled surfer.”
“Oh yeah, thanks to my brother.” Her smile falters and then fades for a second before she looks back at me with a small grin, and… veers her gaze back to my biceps.
I feel like there’s a story here but I will never pry on business that isn’t my own unless she wants to talk about it.
She grabs the towel from the top of the bamboo chair, drying herself off and making eye contact with my chest as I take another sip of my coffee.
I work out whenever I get the chance in my home gym downstairs. It keeps my mind occupied. It is also the reason why a lot of women check me out constantly. I don’t hate it but it never felt authentic to me. I never felt a genuine interest from any of those women.
Yet I can’t say I don’t enjoy the way her hungry eyes lock on different areas of my body as she gets lost in it for a moment.
“I forgot I stashed jean shorts and a black top inside. I’m a chaotic eater. I eat like a child with passion and without a care in the world using my entire body in the process. You need a certain level of commitment.” She extracts the clothes out of her bag, and throws a handful of seashells she must’ve collected from the beach inside.
My chest rumbles as my laughter echoes. Those precious moments she speaks like an autostrada highway are adorable. Her sense of humor and perspective on the little things of our daily lives vibe with her personality.
I drink the rest of my coffee, enjoying the morning energy and her company.
She clears her throat, “On that note, can I make breakfast?”
“Feel free. The fridge is stocked with goods,” I affirm her ridiculous question. I thought I already made myself clear yesterday when I told her the exact words.
“Thanks.” She turns to go but stops halfway, “Do you want anything?”
