He rides his bike barefoot and the whole time I think how much I like that and how it would hurt to get a toe caught in the spokes. The day is easy, with buttery light filtering down onto our noses and a lot of people walking up and down the boardwalk. Forward, behind, side to side, just people walking and running and a man on roller blades who obviously wants to join the ice-capades. Sometimes he turns around, looking over his shoulder to tell me a joke or point out a landmark because technically I’m a tourist even though I’m here to see him and maybe a few palm trees as well.
When we stop so I can buy postcards he offers to go get lemonade and I watch his bare feet pad across the cement, small pebbles and sand flying off his heel. Heel-to flick, heel-toe flick, heel-toe flick, until he’s back again with thick styrofoam cups so white that my eyes hurt from their stark sun-light glare. We drink the lemonade gone in a few minutes and chew on the ice and in my head I write out postcards to my friends at home: Having fun! Wish you were here! He’s barefoot and I’m in love! See you in a week!
The sand is hot and soft beneath us when we finally find an empty space in the ocean of people covering the beach. Our towels barely touch and we don’t talk much, just rest up for the ride home and bury our feet so deep that water rushes in to fill the space between our toes. There is no word for the color of the sky and the waves swell and break and swell back up again, then again.
He stands up and I follow him back to our bikes chained to a lamp post. I worry the whole ride home that his toe will get caught between the spokes. But it doesn’t. When we get home, I leave my shoes outside the front door. And when we walk by the dog sleeping on the wide corduroy pillow, we step so softly that she doesn’t even lift her head.
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