He stared at the beach. The sun was up, had been up already for hours. There was nothing he could see but stretches of tan sand, bare as naked skin, and the sparkling sea, with waves almost beckoning him forward. There was no one here; the beach was deserted except for the seagulls and their cry. That was strange-but then he supposed everyone went home to sleep off the hangovers from last night’s party. Trash, flotsam of last night’s party- beer bottles and plastic knickknacks-were embedded in the sand, like last night’s memories were embedded in his.
He closed his eyes. Traces of light remained: like flickering embers from the fire last night, like his hope, almost burned out.
He had gone to last night’s party with such high hopes. His girl went too; after all, they were part of the same circle. But somehow, for some reason, he hadn’t seen her. He had spent the first hour or so searching for her, calling her name, ignoring others’ invitation to join them. It had been hard to see- the only source of light was the bonfire they built in the middle of the beach. In the dim amber light, there had been only faint figures, like ghosts, wandering around, sometimes entwined in each other, sometimes not. But try as he did, he still could not find her.
He had sat down in despair and drank a bottle of beer. Drank more than one, if he could recall correctly. It left him dazed and his mind hazy; he had almost forgotten what he was looking for. But some unknown instinct drove him. He continued searching for her, though he did not find her.
Just as he had been about to give up, he spotted her. Intertwined in someone else’s arms.
He couldn’t remember much from last night, but he did remember this much. He remembered the burning sensation as he saw her, the pain that felt like a knife twisting in his heart. He had ran. Ran from her, ran from his plans to be with her, ran from everything.
He walked to a log lying in the middle of the beach. It looked lonely. He had sat here last night, sat here and cried. It wasn’t usual for him to cry: in fact, he wasn’t the type to cry at all. And then he’d met her.
She was the most gorgeous girl he’d ever seen, just plain beautiful. It wasn’t the classical kind of beauty- her nose was too long, her ears too large, but she had a sparkle in her eye, an air that made her infinitely attractive.
He was drunk and hurt. She was willing. They did it.
Morning came and he regretted it. Now he was standing besides the sea, thinking about what had happened. He picked up sand warmed by the sun; it was fine and smooth, reminding him of her skin.
He opened his hand and watched as it flew away.
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