Anthology of Short Stories - Vol. 1 (Literary Fiction)

Cool - @MaryWWalters

Cool by Mary W. Walters

Without raising her sunglasses from her eyes or even looking up at him, Katerina said, "I'll see you next year, then."

He looked out at the hot sea, unwilling to nod or blink or acknowledge in any way that he'd heard what she had said.

Bathers had strewn themselves along the beachfront, their umbrellas and towels and bright plastic buckets and beach balls scattered as far as he could see. He felt alone with her in spite of that.

If he turned his head he would have to work at it to find the mouth of the inlet. It would be remarkable only by the slightly hazier greens and blues and browns that extended into sky beyond it. But he did not turn his head.

He did not look at her, either. He kept his attention on the sea sails and on not moving his bare feet - his soles felt scorched from coming this far across the sand - but he was aware of all of her. She too was still, on her low beach chair, the brown smooth skin of her belly forming one darker crease along her waist. At the edge of his vision were long tanned arms and legs, long fingers and long toes, nails bronzed and shining. She was wearing a modest suit, striped mustard gold and scarlet, the halter top so perfectly constructed, it seemed to him, to possess her small round breasts. The thought of them made his heart hurt.

"If I come back again next year, that is," she said. "I may decide to get a job instead."

And God, his heart was breaking now, and still she didn't move, not even one small gesture. She'd told him how she laid herself out for twenty minutes at a time so the sun would strike her in exactly the places she wanted it to, and that she'd even accounted for the movement of the earth against the sun.

After a long time he said flatly, "I said my parents were leaving. That doesn't mean I have to."

He'd imagined it as he came looking for her across the beach, how he would tell her about his parents' change of plans, and she would protest, urge him to find a way to stay. He'd been certain that, if nothing else, their knowledge of what was in the boat house must bind her to him.

Now she did begin to move, not in response to what he'd said but to a tiny beeping sound from the inside of her beach bag. She swung her legs to the side and gingerly lowered those slender brown feet onto the sand, gathering lotions from the shade of the chair into the bag.

"Where would you stay?" she asked him, her smooth brown hair falling forward, obscuring her face as she tucked and pulled the bag shut.

"With my aunt and uncle," he said. "I may decide to do that."

He'd picked up this manner of speaking from her - I may decide this, I may decide that - dipping into options as though anything were possible and the future didn't really matter anyway. In fact, he'd already made the decision - grabbing his mother's suggestion that he could stay with an eagerness he'd never show with Katerina. With her, slowness was demanded, or else all would be lost. He did not know how he knew this, but he did.

She left the chair for him to fold and carry, and he ran to catch up with her, doing so just as sand gave way to stones and sticks and underbrush.

"Shall we go back tonight?" he asked her, using the words he'd put together while he walked out to see her. "See if it's still there?"

"It's dead," she said, head down, hair swinging. "Where's it going to go?"

***

But she did agree to come and then he had to wait for the time that she had set, which seemed to take forever - at least until the hour was nearly on him, and his aunt and uncle were still not back. Then, time started racing.