66 Ginger
66
Ginger
The days ran together: long drives on the motorcycle to watch the sun set in Benirrás, walks down to the beach, which was surrounded by trees and paths and hills, letting the serenity envelop us as we listened for the faint sound of nearby drums or the murmurs of the people. When we sat on the sand, Rhys would grab my hand and draw spirals on it with his fingers. I’d smile, close my eyes, and take deep breaths of sea air, feeling the breeze blow through the light T-shirts and dresses I’d bought at the markets on the island. I’d stopped wearing a bra one morning, when I went to the beach alone because Rhys was still asleep. I had splashed around, taken off my bikini top, and laid on the sunny shore, arms extended, listening to the seagulls coming close over the coast. Maybe it was stupid, but I’d felt freer than ever, lighter, happier. Leaving behind my life in London, the life that had tied me down and kept me from thinking about what I really wanted, was like tearing away a veil and finally seeing the light. Opening my eyes, but differently, seeing everything from a new perspective.
And Rhys had been the ideal companion on that voyage. He’d never told me directly that I had to break free, but he had always been there waiting for me in case I ever did.
One afternoon, when the sky was red like a pomegranate that had exploded and shed its color over everything, I looked at him, squinting.
“What?” he murmured.
“Thank you, Rhys. Seriously.”
“What’s this all about?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking how good I feel, how lucky I am to be here right now, watching this sunset with you. Come here and kiss me.”
Rhys bent over and trapped my lips tenderly. When we separated, I rested my head on his shoulder and looked at the gathering clouds.
“I don’t want this summer to ever end.”
Me neither, I thought. But I didn’t say it aloud.