The sunshine was hot.
The ocean was cool.
My skin was dripping with sweat as I sat on a towel, looking around at the swimmers and surfers as the waves grew with the tide.
My hands never touched the sand deliberately. I hated the texture.
My eyes were taken away from the water as a particular tattooed man emerged, heading in my direction.
I knew, like every other time, that his towel was the one behind me. The small pile of things was his.
Yet some part of my brain still buzzed as he came closer, the possibility of him approaching me small, but not impossible.
I knew his routine just as well as my own.
He would arrive at the beach at 4 pm.
Set his shirt, shoes and green towel close to the bushes.
Dive into the waves once the water reaches his hips.
Everytime.
I looked away as he made his way past me, ignoring the way he flipped his wet curls out of his face.
We had never conversed. Never made eye contact.
I could never smell him. Never touch him.
And yet I felt as if I knew him. As if we were friends, lovers even.
I felt I knew about his life. About what he did when he was out of my sight. What he did in his daily life.
But I didn't.
I knew nothing about him. His job. His friends. His family. His home. His hobbies. His life.
It annoyed me. It took up more of my brain than I'd like to admit.
I didn't even know if he noticed me. Part of my brain said yes but the rational, reasonable side said no.
I could have sworn he had looked at me once. Twice even. It's what I wanted. It's why I always sat in front of his things. Why I always came to this beach specifically. Why I would cancel plans with my friends if it overlapped with the hours I would sit here, waiting. Watching.
I heard his keys jangle. I heard him shake his towel. I heard him walk away.
I sighed. I stood. I took my things.
His car drove past as I reached the car park.
I looked away. I left.
I did it again.
Started: 16.07.21
Completed: 16.07.21
Edited: 16.07.21