a shortshort story with no name

It was hot. It was the type of heat that smothers you under a blanket of thick mist until you’re not really sure whether you’re awake or asleep. It was on this hot night that she dreamed about beach balls and salty sea and Mark From Down The Road. It was a confusing dream which wasn’t confusing at the time she was dreaming it, but puzzled her for a long moment afterwards.

It didn’t just puzzle her, either: it hung around her like a pretty, Indian scarf she saw in the shop window once. She was acutely aware of its presence for the entire week, feeling its soft weight on her shoulders and back.

“Hey, let’s go to the beach.”

It was Saturday and so they went. The thick, gloopy sunscreen made her skin turn white-ish and made the grains of sand stick to her in a not unpleasant way. She looked down at the chipped blue nail polish on her toenails. I must, she said to herself, do something about that. She looked up, up – and felt her breath catch in her throat. It was Mark From Down The Road.

He was looking down at her, his eyes sparkling in an agreeable way. He smiled a slow, sandy smile and said intelligently, “Hey”. She felt the pretty, Indian scarf of a dream slowly lifting from her shoulders and saw it flutter away, carried by the warm breeze. She thought of following it, but then remembered that Mark From Down The Road was talking to her. “Hey”, she said back.

It was the best conversation she had ever had. She talked about ice cream and music and break-dancing while Mark From Down The Road smiled his sandy smile and nodded in a most adorable way the entire time. She was already planning their wedding in her mind and wondering if Mark would still look sandy, even in a suit, when he spoilt it all.

“I hate that guy,” he said. She was startled by the malice in his voice, and she was even more startled by the sudden realisation that this was the first time he’d said something in the past fifteen minutes. She followed the line of his glaring eyes to an unassuming young man who was engaged in burying a girl’s legs in the hot sand. “He just thinks he’s so cool – but he’s such a loser.” The words looked ugly as they came tumbling out of his angry mouth. The sound they made grated painfully against her ears and she covered them with her hands quickly. Her beautiful, sandy dream of a boy was flying away, just like a pretty, Indian scarf she’d seen once in a shop window.

“I think I should go home now.” The words, as she said them, brought her back to reality. Reality, she thought as she walked back alone, is not such a bad place to be.