Salt and White Chocolate

Autumn falls; donning a cloak of off-shore wind, covering us with clean swell coated in glass, dripping shards of a winter to come. She slaps away salt-drenched and burnished tourists, the flap and clack of thongs chant “on your way”.

I meet my cousin in the car-park. Asphalt glitters, and begins to bite; a warning taste of later. Trine’s tall, and blonde, and strong. Built like a brick shithouse, our dad’s would say.  And we wander barefoot, bare legs drenched with freckles, down to The Pass in the morning quiet, flickering through sheoak shadows breaking up the sunlight.

We stand in the shallows, looking down toward The Wreck, our destination. Rubbing spit, and salt water into masks, all quiet and serious like. We wade out further to the deep, and sink gently, into the cool, and begin. Softly, at first, then churning. Side by side, we swim. Through the ocean; in the salt, in the cool, in the deep. In that deep, and emerald green.

Soft ribbons of weed drift beneath us, and tiny brisk slivers of fish, dart and buckle and squirm. Yet deeper still, beneath them, watch, as the sun spreads out her fingers. Filaments flicker across the sand, spark here, now there, and flowing.

Hauling ourselves out, we thwack, glisten, slap. All slithery fish till we dry, and stiffen. On a birthday block of chocolate, hooked. In the gutter, in the car park, salted skin crackling.

 

This was inspired by a writing prompt from The Write Practice. 

 

 

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