Body

I wrote this this week, and I don’t hate it. (Sex is so hard to write about.) Let me know what you think.

Morning comes with the thrum of the sea. I shiver at the remembering,
the eddying. My ordinary body moves, makes coffee. Catkins cluster
in tall trees that telescope to the watery blue of the sky. I sit in a camp
chair and let the slow minutes fall like bleached pebbles. Your ordinary
body shifts next to me. A languid breeze drifts over us. My skin is aware
of sweetness, rumor of breath. Our eyes connect watching a dark-haired
couple enter the shower room together. They're in sweatpants, holding the
handles of plastic caddies. I read three pages. Four. The shower door opens
with an echo that carries, fan rumbling like a thunderstorm across the waves.
The man emerges first, rugged in boots and chinos. The woman's hand lingers
on the doorframe. She wears a sweater, seashell pink, tight jeans. She stands
for the longest time in front of the mirror, combing her shoulder-length hair.
He watches. We can only imagine their reflections in the mirror. The aftermath
of sex is like a hangover—nebulous and blurry—with an unaccountable ache.