The Mint-Green Alibi

They told me the ocean heals. What they didn't say is that it just salts your wounds so they sting a little longer, a little prettier. I knelt on the board like a saint who'd finally learned to lie with confidence, flashing my two fingers at the camera as if the world owed me an apology and I was graciously accepting payment in sunshine. The city had been colder than this water; its apartments hummed with the white noise of people pretending not to want each other, and I had spent three months learning that a 'good guy' is just a man who forgot to be hungry.
Then he appeared at the shore's edge, all soft shoulders and uncertain eyes, and for once the script didn't have a punchline. I wanted to tell him that romance is mostly logistics and bad timing, but my body—traitor in mint green—leaned forward off the board like it had already signed the contract. The sun found my collarbone first, then slid lower, mapping every place the city had never bothered to touch. So here I am, making a peace sign that means nothing, while underneath all this glossy healing is just a woman who finally let someone see her wet, and didn't flinch.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach