The Gravity of a Summer Afternoon

I had spent three years in that glass tower downtown, breathing recycled air and speaking in curated paragraphs. My heart was an archive—organized, silent, frozen under layers of corporate etiquette.
Then came you. You didn't ask me to be efficient; you asked me if I remembered how it felt to get sand between my toes.
Now we stand here on this strip of coast where the wind smells like salt and old promises. As I hold out this beach ball—this garish, plastic sphere that looks ridiculous against our silence—I am not just offering a game. I am throwing everything at you: the late nights in fluorescent light, the loneliness of five-star hotels with empty beds, the quiet desperation of being known but never seen.
You smile back at me, and suddenly the distance between us feels like an ocean that has finally decided to shrink. My neon bikini is a scream against the muted greens of the shore—a desperate signal flare saying 'I am here.'
When you reach out your hand to take the ball from me, our fingertips graze for just a fraction of a second. It isn't much. But in that touch, three years of suppressed longing explode behind my ribs like an underwater volcano. I don't move; I barely breathe. The world narrows down to this singular point: you are warm, and for the first time in forever, I am not cold.

Editor: Deep Sea