My feet scamper along the creaking soft-splintered wood. It feels worn and ready for me. Without shoes, the sun scorches them, so I move quickly.
His head hangs at the end of the boardwalk, his chest bare, his slightly-defined muscles sun-kissed and flexed as his hips are bent over, his eyes looking into the scrub bushes at the end of the boardwalk.
My sandy, wet towel hangs loosely around my body; I pull it slightly tighter. His blonde hair points to the sky with salt, messy, careless. Sweaty sea water sticks to my face, an absent minded breeze playing with my hair.
I reach the paved road; my house for the week stands just several hundred paces away. His hands lift away from where they had been crouching on his waist. His knees and back straighten as his eyes find mine, slicing through the wind.
What are you looking at? I ask.
Nothing. He replies, shaking his head, scattering his thoughts into the breeze.
Oh. I begin to walk away…