The Turquoise Memory of August

I remember the way you looked at me that afternoon, as if I were a secret only you had been allowed to discover. The city noise faded into a distant hum, replaced by the rhythmic splashing of water and the scent of chlorine mixed with your favorite cologne.
I floated there in my colorful ring, feeling small against the vast blue of the pool, yet entirely seen by you. I wanted to tell you that these moments—the way sunlight danced on my skin and mirrored in your eyes—were all I ever wanted from this frantic urban life.
There was a quiet tension between us, an unspoken pull like the tide returning home. As I leaned forward, watching a single droplet slide down your cheek, I wondered if you could hear my heart hammering against the thin fabric of my bikini. It wasn't just about the summer heat; it was the warmth of knowing that in this fleeting slice of August, we belonged to each other.
I still carry that day with me, a preserved fragment of light and water. Even now, when the winter wind howls through the skyscrapers, I close my eyes and return to that pool, waiting for you to reach out and pull me closer.

Editor: South Wind