Salt · a story

"I’d like to say I’m fine, but I’m sun-damaged. But I’m him-damaged."

Yesterday, I thought I saw his car on the road. 

Then spilt half a bottle of cola down my front. Coca Cola pooled in my bra as I looked to the rear view trying to make out the white blur. I still don’t know, if it was. Later, I sat in my driveway, sticky from coke fizz and memory. Wondering if it was. Telling myself no. Deciding I won’t. Looking at the phone contact I didn’t delete. Looking out the window. Grabbing the wine from the grocery bag. Taking a swig. Sitting in the peach glow of a late sunset, I headed for pain. I headed for him. Hell bound.

When I think of him, I think of salt. And petrol. And that weathered iPod cord playing songs that crackled in the heat. I think of dust on the steering wheel. Fresh cut grass. I think of my feet on the dashboard and the grainy videos he sent me on new years eve. Beaming in the middle of a crowd. I think of liquor texts. You were in my dream the other night. A silver ring in my mouth. Peeling paint on an open window. Cool showers, shampoo. Dead butterflies on a windscreen. Let’s just be friends. But salt. Mostly salt.

He wouldn’t sleep with me right away. We kissed on a green street and I remember the distinct smell of beach. Salt and hair and haze. All that ocean in my mouth. And later, on his backseat, all that ocean in my lap. I came out of winter newly single and found heat grinning with his name. A surfboard strapped to his car. His stupid towels. Something so bright it hurt. I discovered men who surf love in sunburn, in hot cars, in heat melt. Like a turquoise holiday it all feels so good until you see pink burns under a bathroom light. Until you get inside and it stings. It was like that. He spoke in salt, he fucked in salt, he smelt like salt. It was good until it got in my skin. Now every ocean swim and fat tear rolling into my mouth stings. I’d like to say I’m fine, but I’m sun-damaged. But I’m him-damaged. But the smell of salt is fatal now.