Page 28 of What It's Like in Words
I turned and he was by the house, stretching his arms above his head. He had my lime-green kikoi around his waist, and I could see the mound of his penis.
I’ve only been up for a few minutes.
He came to me, and I ran my hands through his soft, ruffled hair. He told me he was hungover. I told him he would survive. We have nothing to do today, I said, moving my hands down to the lines on either side of his hips. For the first time I felt the impact of that statement: no pressure to write and no guilt when I didn’t and no shifts at the café with bankers asking me if I was “doing this to put myself through university.”
After a breakfast of papaya scored like a chessboard and peanut butter on toast (he told me that he loved the Kenyan peanut butter, which made me happy, because it felt like he was saying something that he loved about me), I showered, singing because the acoustics were excellent. When I came out, he was standing with his fingers in his ears. At least you’re good at other things, he said.
The mischief in his green eyes and how my skin hummed from the sun made me get down on my knees.Something I bet your ex never did.
I should insult you more often, he said as I took him in my mouth.
Go on, then…
You’re a shit cook.
Don’t stop…
You’re probably a terrible barista.
Oh yeah, that’s the stuff…
You’ll never be a writer.
WE DECIDED TO SWIMto the little island before lunch. He took a drag on his inhaler. We shared a madafu; then walked down the path to the beach and looked out at the blue.
Are you sure you’re a strong enough swimmer?
He frowned. Areyou, Enola?
I explained that Dad and I had swum to this island when I was little. Plus, I swim once a month at the pool in Hackney.
He whistled. Well, watch out… erm…
I folded my arms provocatively. You can’t think of a single professional swimmer?
Gary Neville?
We laughed as we waded, then, as the water deepened, began to swim. We swam next to each other at first, but then we stopped talking, and the distance between us grew.
Good job you did all that training, honey! he shouted back.
My arms and legs were out of sync, and I kept swallowing seawater. The island wasn’t getting any closer, and I thought of that man who pushed the boulder up the hill in hell.How on earth did I manage this when I was a child?It felt dangerous. A boat sent a wave toward us, and I dived under, but when I came back up, he was even farther away. Oh god. What if I couldn’t do this? Worse than the notion of drowning was what he would think of me if I drowned.
I switched to a front crawl and concentrated on my movements until I found my stride, so much so that I began to catch him or he began to slow down.
All right, Gary Neville, I called.
He looked over his shoulder, and I thought he might slow to meet me, but he sped up. I felt a spark and kicked harder. He was barely a meter away. I reached to grab his foot, but then I stopped myself. My instincts told me to stay behind him. I would rather him tease me for being a bad swimmer than put him in a mood because he felt likehewas one. I switched back to breaststroke and let him get to the island first.
When he neared the bank, I shouted to him not to put his feet down.
What?
Your feet.
Huh?
Sea urchins.
