The Saltwater Alibi

My life is a series of temperature-controlled rooms and silent elevators that smell faintly of sandalwood and ambition. I have mastered the art of existing in high resolution while remaining entirely invisible.
He found me not through conversation, but by noticing how I held my glass—fingertips barely touching the crystal rim as if afraid to leave an impression on a world already too polished for comfort. He didn't offer platitudes or romantic clichés; he simply handed me two tickets and told me that silence is better when shared.
Now I stand here, where the sand yields beneath my heels like forgotten promises. The blue of my swimsuit matches nothing in this landscape but perhaps a dream I once had before board meetings became my religion. He is somewhere behind me, probably recording the sound of the tide on an analog device that costs more than most people's first cars.
I turn back to look at him—not with longing, but with an invitation. The air tastes of salt and expensive sunscreen, a sensory dissonance that feels like healing. For the first time in years, my skin does not feel like armor; it feels alive under a sun that doesn’t care about my net worth.
I leave footprints behind me—imperfect, fleeting marks on an indifferent shore. It is enough to know that for one afternoon, we are both perfectly adrift.

Editor: Champagne Noir