Second Place Winner 2024 WestWord Flash Prize
One foot on the step, and I pause. The hewn rocks echo the noise of the seawater sucking in and out of the pool. Mike is ready to swim towards the cascading edge, waving to me, watching me cringe at the slime under foot. He scowls and puts his head down and speeds away. The chatter of sun-kissed people drinking cocktails ripples through the water. The edge of the pool, the sea, and sky merge into infinity.
The second step is slippery, attached bivalves are opening and closing, bubbles emerging from their blue lips. A frond of delicate green weed floats across and wraps itself around my ankle, tangling in the silver chain Mike gave me last year. I shake my foot to dislodge it, trying to ignore the contraction of my muscles, the shiver running up my leg. I count with slow, measured breaths and relax my shoulders. Don’t think of seaweed. Don’t think of seaweed. The first hour of our holiday must go well. I need Mike to enjoy my company and not have his eyes glaze over with thoughts of her. Our last-ditch resuscitation of this relationship. The sun on the back of my head is burning, edging me onwards and into the cool water.
There is no third step. Below me I see pebbles and sand, and I plummet into the water. It is deeper than expected and I doggy paddle in panic. Around me are svelte bodies in multi-hued skimpy swimwear, perfect makeup and hair — tendrils of my wet hair stick to my face, salt water up my nose. I gasp and Mike watches me from the infinity edge. He crushes his sensual lips to a thin line, and he shakes his head. My stomach lurches; I have disappointed again—this is not how I dreamed it would be. He talks to a woman who touches his arm, and his mouth softens into a smile, soaking up her lingering touch.
I remember how to swim and I reach Mike and infinity. Cut into the edge are stone seats, but none are free. Everyone is eager for a cocktail on their first day in this all-inclusive resort. He drags his eyes away from the woman’s bikini top and he looks at me and shrugs. His lips curl into a half smile and he says, there is seaweed here. I gasp and treading water, I look down into the depths, but the water is so deep all I see is a green bloom; my darkest dream.
A leathery, brown-orange strap slithers around my wrist. I can see its dimpled surface, wet and slimy. I arc my arm, sending waves of bubbling seawater into the air. The seaweed flaps as it soars—it holds a rock in its claw fingers. The weed ripples back and lands next to me. Its fingers reach and attach to my holiday-red toenails. Mike glares at me, shrugging as if he doesn’t know me. He holds his drink high and motions for me to leave him alone. My mouth opens to speak, but my words are bubbles in the water. The weed wraps its length up my leg, cooling my skin. Woven through my fingers are fine green fronds, and bladder-wrack cloaks my shoulders, shading them from the burning sun. Another icy touch on my right knee and there is a tug as something wraps around my waxed thigh.
My legs slow in treading water; the weed is so thick it blankets me, holding me in its mucus embrace. Infinity is far away, the horizon blends and warps. I hear Mike laugh, and classes clink. I know they will kiss, but the weed sings to me of the sea. A song of sadness, of rejection, of release, of bubbles escaping from my blue lips as I sink down into the water. Sounds fade. All I can hear is the whoosh of my blood as it slows and merges into the eternity of the sand and the rocks.
Author: Joyce Bingham is a Scottish writer whose work has appeared in publications such as Flash Frog, WestWord, Molotov Cocktail, Ellipsis Zine, Raw Lit, and Sci-fi Shorts. She lives in Manchester, UK.
Great story, Joyce! Love the sensory details, the little tells of how hard she has tried. Seaweed sounds better than that husband anyway.
Another fabulous story, Joyce. Congratulations!