When We Touch

I remember telling her how to sit. How to hold her hands in her lap, turn her head to the side, lower her chin, raise her shoulder…

She was so fucking beautiful.

I was hypnotized by her breasts, distracted by her narrow waist, mouth watering at the sparse dusting of soft hair on her pussy…

Ember Rose.

My chest burns at the sight. I can still taste her clean, ocean-water flavor. Her body is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Sketching her, painting her had been electric. It had been like taking her body all over again, but even more intimately, if that’s possible.

My fingers tingled with each stroke of my pencil, as if the lines were laced with electricity. Her full lips had trembled as if she could feel me drawing them, shading them, caressing them with my fingertips.

Every curve, every shadow, every intimate place… She would melt when I touched her.

I remember touching her…

When we touch, everything grows brighter, hotter, faster, more desperate.

I’d painted her in warm gold, bright yellow, pure cream, and deep brown, and on the back I’d hastily written Shine Like Ember.

Her eyes glowed. She loved it, but at the same time, she’d been afraid. She was worried someone would find it. I’d promised her no one but me would ever see it.

Tearing my eyes away from her beauty, I look around the transformed cottage, and I realize I didn’t keep that promise. We didn’t keep a lot of promises. Still, why didn’t I take this with me?

I know why.

I had always thought I’d come back for her. I had thought we would live here, and this painting was here waiting for that vision to become reality.

“Grow up, Jackson,” I say, clearing the thickness from my throat.

Adjusting my fly, I lift the canvas and push it back inside the crawl-space closet, jerking the string to kill the light, hiding its magic.

Those days are over.

Daydreams are for children. I need a drink.

* * *

I’m out on the strand, alone, entering the Tuna Tiki on a Saturday night. It’s as crowded as it ever was and equally cheesy, and just as I pass through the entrance, a big guy in a damp tee bumps into me. I move him away, forward into the crowd, and somebody cheers. Nobody seems to care.

“Drunk tourists,” I mutter under my breath, hating what’s become of this once pristine landscape. I guess I have my dad to thank for it… and he has all his money to show for it.

It’s an open-air bar, so the constant breeze keeps us cool while covering us in fresh salt. Music drifts around me. It’s Bob Marley, but it doesn’t sound like one of his millions of familiar recordings. Lifting my chin, I try to see if there’s a live band. That would be a switch from eleven years ago. I can’t see anything from this spot in the crowd.

The sky is deep royal blue, and the lights from the bar drown out the stars. I don’t expect to see anyone I know here. It’s been too long, and when I left, nobody came out to the strand from Oceanside Village. They were all so bitter and angry that it destroyed the town. That’s what they said… I’m not sure that’s true. They might not have come here to socialize, but this place brought tons of jobs to the area.

I’m not looking to make amends for the past, so I push up through the barstools, a twenty flagging in my fingers.

The bartender is heavy-set with dark hair and a bright red lei necklace. A hibiscus is behind his ear, and he’s clearly Latino. Still, they’re going for a Hawaiian vibe, and I’m willing to bet everyone thinks he’s Samoan. Either way, he’s moving fast, mixing drinks, monitoring draft beers, and taking orders.

He sees me, and I lift my chin. “Vodka rocks, twist of lime,” I shout.

A chin up, and I know he’s got my order. I lean back against the bamboo countertop to wait as I check out the crowd. I was barely old enough to come here when this place opened eleven years ago, but if all’s the same, they have pretty decent drinks, and I need something strong to kill the memories.

I almost asked for Fireball since I’ve always been partial to cinnamon, but I’d like to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t know what I was thinking coming back to Oceanside—did I think she’d be waiting?

I know she’s gone.

I remember what my dad said.