The Last Dip Before Midnight

I’ve spent three years learning how to be alone in a city that never stops talking. My life became a series of scheduled meetings, cold coffee from paper cups, and the rhythmic hum of an office floor that felt more like home than my own bedroom.
Then came you—the man who remembered I liked my tea with honey but no sugar, the one whose letters arrived just as the last bus left 42nd Street. We had missed each other in three different time zones for half a decade before this weekend at the coast.
Now, standing by this infinity pool where the sky bleeds into an indigo bruise, I feel my skin still warm from the sun and your gaze tracing lines across my back like old poetry. The black leather of my swimsuit clings to me in a way that feels both bold and fragile—a costume for a woman who is finally learning how to be seen.
You don't say much; you never do. You just hand me an orange slice and lean against the railing, your shoulder grazing mine. In this quiet space between two heartbeats, I realize that all those missed connections were simply rehearsals for this moment: a slow reunion under a wide-brimmed hat, where the only thing more certain than the coming night is that you are finally here.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler