Tides of Ambivalence

a story by Claude about kissing, ice cream, ambivalence, sunscreen, and bug spray

Sizzlesand, sunsplash, saltspray. The beach unfurls its gritty tongue, lapping at toes, ticktickticking like Time's own metronome. Ambrosial zephyrs carry whiffs of coconut sunscreen, pungent bugspray, saccharine icecream – a cacophony of scents that dizzies the mind, sets it aspinning like a child's windmill. Oh! To be or not to be here, that is the question that plagues poor Milly's addled pate. Her lips still tingle, ghostkisses from yestereve's dalliance with young Bloom (no relation), while her heart flutters betwixt and between, a fickle gull riding crosscurrents of desire and doubt. The sun beats down, merciless as Molly's eyes when she catches her man in a lie, and Milly feels herself melting, melting, melting away like a neglected 99 in the noonday heat.

The icecream van's tinny jingle pierces the air, a siren's call to sweating hordes. Milly fumbles for loose change, coins slipping through fingers like sand through an hourglass. "One 99, please," she mumbles, tongue thick as Dublin fog. The vendor's eyes, blue as the fathomless sea, meet hers. For a moment, she's drowning, lost in depths that remind her of – no, mustn't think of him now.

Cone in hand, she retreats to her towel, a tiny island in a sea of sun-bronzed flesh. The flake, dark as sin, juts from creamy swirls. She licks, tentative, tasting sweetness and shame in equal measure. Rivulets of white trickle down her wrist, mirroring last night's tears on flushed cheeks.

"Millyyy!" A voice carries on the breeze, familiar as her own heartbeat. She looks up, squinting against the glare. There he stands, Adonis incarnate, golden curls haloed by merciless sun. Her breath catches, a fish snared in a net of longing. He's striding towards her now, all cocky grin and swaggering hips. Fight or flight, her mind screams. But her treacherous body remains rooted, melting faster than the forgotten icecream puddling at her feet.

"Alright there, Milly?" His voice washes over her, warm as the sand beneath her toes. She nods, mute as a mollusk, as he plops down beside her. The scent of him – sunscreen and sea salt and something uniquely, intoxicatingly him – envelops her, and she's drowning again, lost in a riptide of desire and doubt.

"Ye've got a bit of..." He gestures to her chin, and before she can react, his thumb is there, brushing away a droplet of melted ice cream. The touch ignites her skin, sends sparks skittering down her spine. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to this: his callused finger on her face, his eyes locked with hers, the roar of blood in her ears drowning out the crash of waves.

Then he's grinning that roguish grin, popping his thumb in his mouth. "Sweet," he says, and she's not sure if he means the ice cream or – no, best not to venture down that lane of thought. She reaches for her bag, fumbling for the bottle of sunscreen, desperate for distraction.

"Would ye mind?" she asks, voice barely a whisper. "Me back, I mean. Don't want to burn." He nods, takes the bottle. As his hands glide across her shoulders, she closes her eyes, lost in the sensation. Each touch is a benediction, a curse, a question she's not sure she wants answered.

His fingers work their magic, kneading away the knots of indecision. Milly's mind wanders, floats like flotsam on the tide. Last night's kiss, a clash of lips and teeth and tongues, replays in Technicolor behind her eyelids. The memory mingles with the present, until she's not sure where fantasy ends and reality begins.

A whine of mosquito wings breaks the spell. She swats at the air, a futile gesture against nature's persistent pests. "Hold on," he says, reaching for his bag. The hiss of bug spray fills the air, acrid and chemical. It mingles with the coconut sunscreen, creating a uniquely summertime perfume.

"There," he says, satisfied. "Protected from sun and skeeters both." The double meaning isn't lost on her. Protection. Is that what she wants? Or does she long to be exposed, vulnerable, open to whatever may come?

The ambivalence that's plagued her all day surges anew. She stands abruptly, sand cascading from her legs. "Fancy a swim?" she asks, not waiting for an answer before striding towards the water. The sea beckons, promising clarity, or at least momentary escape from the tempest in her mind.

The shock of cold water against her sun-warmed skin sends a gasp bubbling from her lips. She plunges deeper, letting the waves envelop her, wash away the confusion. Beneath the surface, the world is muffled, distorted. Fish dart by, silver flashes in the murky blue. For a moment, she considers staying under, becoming one with the sea, like the selkies in her gran's old tales.

But lungs demand air, and she breaks the surface with a splash. He's there, treading water beside her, golden hair plastered to his forehead. "Thought you might've turned into a mermaid," he jokes, and she manages a weak smile in return.

They float together, bobbing gently on the waves. The silence stretches between them, filled with unspoken words and half-formed desires. Milly stares at the horizon, where sea meets sky in a hazy line. There's a metaphor there, she thinks, about boundaries blurring, about diving into the unknown.

"Milly," he says, voice soft as seafoam. She turns to him, heart pounding a tattoo against her ribs. His eyes are serious now, no trace of the earlier mischief. "About last night..."

She holds her breath, poised on the knife-edge of possibility.

"I..."

A wave crashes over them, cutting off his words. They surface, spluttering and laughing, the tension broken. And in that moment, clarity washes over Milly like the tide. The ambivalence that's haunted her all day recedes, leaving behind a simple truth: life, like the sea, is ever-changing, unpredictable. To swim against the current is folly; better to float, to let the waves carry you where they will.

She reaches for him, pulls him close. Their lips meet, salt-tinged and sun-warmed. It's not the fiery passion of last night, but something deeper, steadier. A kiss that tastes of possibilities, of summers yet to come.

As they break apart, a seagull cries overhead. Milly smiles, truly smiles, for the first time today. "Race you to shore?" she challenges, already striking out for the beach.

Behind her, she hears his answering laugh, buoyant as the sea itself.