Page 29 of What It's Like in Words
I was so focused on communicating to him not to put his feet down that I forgot about my own. He helped me out of the water, and I collapsed onto my knotted back. My ears were ringing, and there were stars where the clouds should be. He told me I was a mess and wiped the hair from my face. He was just as breathless, but I told him he was a good swimmer, and he said, proudly, that he used to go wild swimming. I felt a sting on the side of my foot. Three gray splinters with white tips.
Fuck!The word hooked in my chest, and I coughed.
He laughed, his eyes turquoise in the sun. Okay, honey. Come on. Placing my foot onto his thigh, he pressed his mouth to the skin and sucked. There, he said, presenting the tiny spikes to me. Now, what are you not going to do on the way back?
Put my feet down…
He leaned back against a tree, and I slotted between his shins, smoothing the hair into neat lines. A breeze skimmed the ocean, andthe sun dried the water on our skin to salt. The moment was perfect. I would have cut my own arm so that he could heal the wound.
DAY 3
We had perfected the morning routine. I put breakfast together while he showered, and then he did the washing up while I showered. We had the same things: papaya, peanut butter on toast, coffee, and mango juice. That morning we took one of the yellow boats to the marine park and went snorkeling. He was stroppy because we didn’t see any turtles, and we teased each other about how we looked in goggles. After lunch we went to the market and bought a kikoi each. His had blue stripes and mine had pink. I made a joke about gender stereotypes. We found pétanque in the cupboard and played on the sand once the sun had lowered. Now it was sunset, and we were sat on the white wall with Tusker beers. My dad used to say:You must always take time for a sundowner.We watched the sun cast pink light, then turn red, shrivel, and sink into the ocean. When the world was lilac, we went inside, lit a citronella candle, and read our books on separate sofas, a bottle of red wine and a bowl of fried coconut on the glass table.
He was in a white T-shirt; his skin had a red-brown tinge, and his reading glasses had slipped down his nose. He gasped and then hummed as if something in his book had surprised him. A murder, perhaps, or a shocking twist. I had read the same paragraph multiple times because I couldn’t stop looking at him. I wanted to sink into his body as if it were a favorite chair. Earlier Ruth had messaged asking if things were better, and I had replied:
Soooo much better. Total transformation. I never want to leave.
I couldn’t imagine going back to seeing him once or twice a week. I loved knowing that he was with me when I went to bed and here when I woke up. I loved our morning routine and our silly little discussions about which activity we were going to do that day. I loved how confident I now felt in a bikini, without makeup, myself.
You want more wine?
I smiled and stretched.
I’ll take that as a yes?
He topped up our glasses until the bottle was empty. He asked what we should do tomorrow, and I suggested lunch at Ocean Sports. He said that he wanted to finish his book before lunch.A silly little discussion.We drank and listened to more music, and, when the world was black, he looked at me, dizzying, and told me I was beautiful.
Yes, Ruth, he tells me that I’m beautiful all the time!
I told him to stop, but he looked emboldened. He said that I was funny and cute and he loved the freckles on my nose. I told him that he was drunk, and he said: Abso-fucking-lutely. He stood from the sofa. My heart started pounding. He walked over and sat next to me.The smell of him. He lifted my glass, and put it to my lips. Catch up. He pressed his thumb to my lips, catching the drops of wine before they stained my kikoi. And you’re fucking sexy, he said. I had never felt sexy before, but I believed him because, at this point, I was what he told me.
DAY 4
The moon was full, and the ocean moved like a Newton’s cradle. Crabs scuttled sideways as we lay on the grassy bank. I pointed out the constellations I knew. There’s the Big Dipper. And there’s the Plow. He told me that they were the same constellation.
One’s American. It’s like chips and crisps.
Dad and I used to sit on the car and watch the stars on safari. But we had different routines on the beach: walking to the rock after breakfast, staying in the shade over lunch, playing a card game after dinner. When I thought about the last time that I was here, there was a sepia grade over the memory. I had cried at the Malindi airport, as if I knew what was going to happen a few months later. I couldn’t have known, but that was what retrospect did to memory: warped it and turned it sepia.
He started speaking as though narrating a nature program: There is the one that looks like a cock. And over there is the other one that looks like a cock. And, finally, there’s one more that looks like—you guessed it—a cock. I asked him why the Milky Way looked so far away if we were a part of it. He told me to stop pretending to be stupid. It is mad that they’re dead, though, he said. Properly mad. Just then a shooting star darted across the sky.
That one’s not, I said.
He chuckled into his beer, then sighed contemplatively. I asked what he was thinking, and he said we needed more beers. Why do you always ask what I’m thinking? I shrugged. We were silent and then in a mock cute tone he said: Why, what areyouthinking about?
We hadn’t spoken about this since the first day, but I felt healthier now, so I answered honestly: I was thinking about how the last time I was here was the last holiday I had with my parents. He didn’t seem to register the comment, he just replied that the last holidayhehad withhisparents was watching them scream over karaoke about his dad’s secret girlfriend, Karen, who moved in a week later.
Keen for more clues for my murder board, I asked when his parents got divorced.
When I was twel—
Do you want kids?
I hadn’t meant to interrupt and so my question was given unintended emphasis and he looked at me like I had asked him to impregnate me. But before he could speak, there was a motorcycle whine past my ear. I asked for the mosquito spray, and he gave me a look. Honey, you already smell like a meth lab. I told him that I was allergic to mosquitoes.
Honey, everyone is allergic. That’s literally what a bite is.
He swigged a mouthful of beer and said that he couldn’t believe we were going home in a few days. I hated hearing that. He was telling me something that I already knew, but it felt like he was saying thatwewould be over in a few days. Our relationship felt bound to this holiday somehow.
