The Lifeguard
Salt.
It’s everywhere.
Another strong gust of wind blows my blonde hair across my face, whipping the strands tightly around my head. I can’t help but think of them as tentacles – sticky arms of a jellyfish constantly outstretched and reaching for more. I giggle to myself and roll my eyes at that train of thought. Some were taught to see black and white, some were taught to see abstract, but I lived a life of metaphors. You could say it made me look crazy and sound cliché, or you could say it made me hard to understand, impossible to read.
Everyone says that. But you don’t.
I rub my palms against the grainy rock we sit on, dipping my finger into the holes that the ocean and wind so fiercely carved together. Salty air and salty sea. Wrecking havoc and performing magic. It’s you and it’s me.
My gray skies open up and lock into your navy pools, and all I can see is the reflection of a girl who has found her solid ground. I press my open hand to your jaw, fixating on how a face can be so baby soft, yet so bristly sharp. I could hold you like this always.
The storm is fast approaching, but we do not dare move. Not a foot, not an inch. You squirm on the rock and stretch upwards, and I yearn for what will happen next. With one swift breath, your arm lays to rest on the top of my shoulder. I reach for you and secure your right hand in my left one. My fingers dance between yours. You don’t know, but they are twirling a tango of thanks, a salsa of sincerity, a disco of dreams. You think you are simply holding my hand. Little do you know you pulled me to safety.
We clink our cheap beers and get drunk off the salty rim that the waves have tastefully added. Your golden cheeks turn a sun-kissed pink, amidst an overcast day. Your lips bounce out stories of home and all the things you love, hastening with every sip you take. I touch my face and feel its heat – a warm mix of introspection and adrenalin. You make me feel alive.
I wipe the sting from our earlier swim out of my eyes, aware that I am bare and natural and exposed. Some would see raw as a flaw.
But you don’t.
You stare at me. I flush. I drift my eyes downward to the holes in the rock. You tell me I am beautiful.
You think it is simply an honest adjective. A word not intended as a compliment or flattery. Instead, the truth.
To me, that word is sand, filling my shallow holes of misunderstanding and my deep holes of everything I wished others could see.
You smile and close your eyes, turning your back to me. Your shoulders rise and fall as you inhale the summer air. You are at peace. You are happy I am next to you. I too shut my eyes, feeling a warm raindrop trickle parallel to my nose. Startled when it seeps into my mouth, I taste a familiar flavour.
Salt.
Thinking the storm has started and the rains have begun, I open my gaze. I find the thrashing currents have softened to lapping waves. Ashen clouds have lightened to translucent patches, teasing a pink and orange sunset.
I wipe my lips and find more drops have fallen. My juddering fingertips go to rub my itchy eyes, and I locate the source of the rain. It takes me a few seconds to realise the source is me, and the raindrops are salty tears. I have never felt more like myself than right now, in this moment.
Some say crying is a sign of weakness, and some choose to run the other way in avoidance.
But you don’t.
You want me around. You know I am strong. You think I am beautiful.