Lament for Wally

We sat together poolside at that resort the whole week after we met. Both tourists. Both lucky and full of summer.

You loved the sun. 

I borrowed you from the people you arrived with. We commandeered the umbrella shade. You took off your sunglasses and kept the color of the sand in your eyes. You had to remind me how to breathe.

Our laughs were indistinguishable after the second day. Your hand felt like paper. I was so new to your collar, your head resting on mine as you talked, hanging onto my shoulders. You curled at my voice.

You could tan, but I could only burn. I didn’t care. There was sunshine when I was close to you. We pushed each other into the pool. I still swear I got you first. We couldn’t hear each other over the bubbles.

Wally, you and I were younger than we wished.

We learned sand together. I didn’t know where the wooden walkways would take us. You enjoyed the steps as we danced. I kept the ocean, always ready to know you closer.

We didn’t come back to my hotel room until halfway through the week. Our hands learned about our hair. You were straw and still salty wet. You shook the leaves from your head. You told me how soft my hair was, even stuffed in a hat all day and full of sweat. We stayed until sunrise. Our footsteps filled the doorway with sand. No ocean in sight. Just you. Just me.

One or two rums, and we couldn’t shut up if we tried. We learned palm trees. We learned seaweed and broken sandals. I learned your clumsy footwork. You got so dizzy when we danced. We forgot about that party right in the middle of it. We ran from the party because I forgot my hat somewhere on the walkways. You wore it back to my room one more time. You didn’t care about my dry mouth. Just you. Just me.

Then we went home. I loved you. You loved the sun.