Sapphic Summer

At this point in the summer getaway, Robin Buckley was more freckle than woman.

Whimsy, just off Colorado Avenue, you find yourself squinting at the technicolor dream of a sunset view, a grin through shared shaved ice.

Blue Hawaii; tangy blue raspberry and smooth coconut on your tongue that melts the crunchy ice.

It's melting fast in its extra-large paper cone, grasped firmly in the sticky hands that feather as they switch possession. Laughter from bright blue teeth, hands are washed on the cold shore.

Zephyrus skating across the water, up to your knees, your eye catches the moment an outgrown fringe of sun-lightened dirty blonde is drawn back like theater curtains revealing those blues so clear and steel.

You're standing in those eyes, lost at sea, surrounded by the glow of heavenly halos, close enough to see new paint flecks of tawny peach amongst rosy skin from playing in the sun all day with you.

The two of you then mosey on to the other half of the beach. following the smell of woodsy bonfire and sounds of amplified small acts with their garage buddies. Together you linger near the very edge of the crowd, hand in hand as you take in the rhythm. Like wolves howling at the moon, you cheer until there's a slight exhaustion in your voice that carries with the night's conversation.

On the way back to that perfectly flamingo-pink kitschy dingbat motor inn, it's just half a mile away from sandy shores you scavenged and plucked for shark eyes, cockles, and coquinas.

The Divine smell of chlorine purifies whatever salty air you carried back to the room, the shimmering turquoise just outside your door swirling lights on the back of your legs.

Bags all dropped on the second bed, its weight off your shoulders that suddenly feel... very light.

Really light, the two of you snort as you begin to undress, the contact high from the show slightly evident on heavy eyelids.

You know what would sound good right now?

Pizza.

Hot.

Here.

Thirty minutes or less.

"Can you call while I shower, pretty please? I still have sand in places where sand, absolutely, should not be."

A laugh with a dismissing wave, she hops over the bed's corner for a kiss, letting her go first while you thumb through the yellow pages.

You decide between a local Vito's, Dominoes, or Pizza Hut.

Ohhh Pizza Hut sounded good with this free trip to Pineapple Express.

Speaking of pineapple- and olives, green peppers, onions, jalapeños- extra cheese, extra sauce, and those breadsticks you know Robin loves- you can't wait to sink your teeth into that buttery pan-baked crust.

Now in an oversized shirt sitting cross-legged on the bed, Robin's on pizza watch, but there just so happened to be a marathon of a honking gray glen plaid suit childhood favorite.

"Why don't you take a picture, it'll last longer?" she chuckles something like an unintentional impression with hair still wet it drips down on the cotton that sticks to between her shoulders.

You shake your head with raised brows,

"Oh, you are so toasted right now. Your chest is so red-!"

"It's from the hot water!" She trills her lips, which leads to lidocaine after-sun on Robin's shoulders and back. You crawl behind her on the bed to gently rub on the parts of her shoulders she can't reach. Her arms stay in her white shirt brought over her head, crossing them to cover her bare chest, though it's nothing you haven't seen before.

The cooling gel spreads evenly on sunburnt shoulders; the warm skin under your palms reminds you of those shared mugs of hot chocolate during snowstorm closeness.

Marshmallow and gingerbread kisses now taste of summer fruit and raspberry iced tea.

Toes that once hid in woolen socks and rubbed together under the afghan now dangle over the edge of the bed, letting Robin apply antibacterial gel and bandages to your poor feet. Curad brand neon strips of pink, yellow, and orange- each one gets a gentle air kiss after you thank your personal nurse for the care.

With little bottles of mixed berry wine coolers in your belly full of cheesy stuffed crust, the two of you fall asleep to the sounds of the glowing television. It's some band you've never heard of performing on a late-night talk show, not quite sure what their post-grunge female front was shoe-gaze yodeling- but it's fitting. Hazy, dreamy, the girl next to you in the queen size bed tosses on the too-soft goosey down to instead use your chest as a pillow.

The sheets are cool, the room's air conditioning blasting so cold your motel room's a walk-in fridge.

Fingers running through her air, her head lowers and raises as you contently sigh, not wanting the day to end just yet.

Right now, everything is still.

It's just you, the ocean,

and your lobster.