Dust and Rose Quartz

The salt clings to the skin, a memory of the tide’s retreat. It tastes like the last cigarette smoked beside him—a flicker of smoke and unspoken words.
He doesn't notice me here, not really. The faded truck behind, the ropes tangled like forgotten promises – they absorb most of his gaze. He sketches, always sketching, chasing a ghost of a smile on a worn-out fender.
My towel’s damp now, clinging to the curve of my spine. It doesn't bother me much. The heat is heavy, a sticky embrace that mirrors the one I secretly crave.
He turned his head for a fraction of a second, saw the way the light caught in my hair – just enough to register a flicker behind those observant eyes. A small thing, easily missed.
I traced the lines of a chipped rose quartz pebble with my thumb—a purchase made on a hazy afternoon, a hopeful talisman. It held his scent, faintly. Or perhaps it only held *the* scent, the ghost of his presence.
There’s a certain beauty in this isolation, isn't there? The dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, the endless expanse of the grey sea. Like a perfectly brewed cup of tea—bitter at first sip, then settling into a quiet warmth.
He turns back to his sketch, and for a moment, everything feels still. And perhaps...just perhaps…a single bead of sweat rolls down my cheek, not from the heat, but something deeper.

Editor: Summer Cicada