Falling down

Even though we're on the edge of the ocean I'm the only one here that never goes swimming. It's not that I'm afraid of the currents or the waves, I just don't trust myself. When I was little in LA, even before my father died, I would go as far out toward the horizon as I could, just to feel what it would be like to never come back.

I did it with Chloe too, later, almost like a game we played in the dark when everyone else had gone home. Gin and medication made it even easier, we would hold hands under the surface and watch the moonlight in each others eyes until we were warm enough to swim back to the shore and the sand and the city.

Last night I woke up early and went down to that little stretch of beach just beneath the house. I stepped out of my shoes and walked slowly in to the ocean as if in a dream, so far I had to hold my summer dress up over my thighs, the cold water touching me between my legs like a skillful tongue. I've learned that nothing really compares to being just inches away from letting go completely.

Farewell to arms

He calls me "l'américaine" because he's dying to fuck me but doesn't want her to know. She sees him looking at me and calls me "la putain" because she feels threatened. I've never spoken to them but I hear them arguing through the walls almost every night before they go to bed as enemies.

It's never my intention to get in between people this way, but knowing I can still turns me on. It's my weakness more than theirs but some vices aren't worth fighting. I tried it once and it made me unhappy, much like the time I decided to drink nothing but vodka cocktails for an entire month.

People are starting to recognize me in the village too, the pale foreign girl in her black dresses and sun bleached hair. If I get too close to them I'll want to leave, so I keep my distance just in case. Summer is almost here and the nights are warm and calm and quiet.