“No, I’m fine,” I say, waving away the offer. “I'm not looking directly at it, and neither should you be, by the way, even with sunglasses. I actually prefer looking at the sky around the sun and its reflection in the water. It almost looks like there’s glitter in the sea, or maybe a million fireflies buzzing away on the surface. Do you see that?”
Looking back at the water, I watch her swallow before replying quietly, “I see that.”
“I love how far the colours stretch out into the sky, all those different shades of pink and red and orange, constantly changing. I know fuck all about art but it’s kind of like watching a painting in real-time, don’t you think?”
She nods.
When she doesn’t say anything, I keep talking. “It’s hard to believe that what we’re looking at is this almighty ball of burning gas hanging in the middle of our galaxy. A lump of mass so big we’re all committed to circling it forever. It’s mad, isn’t it?”
Jenna is still, eyes straight ahead but something tells me she’s listening to every word.
“It’s a prompt, I guess, to look at what’s happening away from the sun,” I continue. “It reminds me to look at the other smaller things surrounding the big thing.”
“That's kind of profound,” she says, her face back on mine. She slides her body down a little and rests her head against the back of the lounger. “And there I was thinking you were going to whisper more filthy cocktail names in my ear.”
I bend one of my legs and bring my hand to rest on it so I can lean a little closer to her. “Oh, I can do that. I'm just waiting for the sun to go down because, as you rightly pointed out, there's no way I can compete with this kind of a performance,” I say, nodding in the sun's direction.
We don’t talk for a few moments after she also turns her attention back to the horizon, but eventually, she speaks, “It blows my mind that this happens every single day.”
I nod. “You don't watch the sun go down often?”
“Not often enough. I think the last time was on my last holiday, which was... shit, nearly three years ago.”
“On my gap year, after school, I watched the sun go down almost every single night.” I pause and take in a quick, necessary breath. “We sort of made it a rule.”
“Sounds like one of the better rules I've heard of,” she says. “So this gap year... Was that last year or the year before or...”
“I'm twenty-four,” I say, knowing what she’s really asking.
I watch her side profile to check for shock or panic or something more subtle like a flinch or maybe even a flash of intrigue. But there’s nothing on her face. Eyes fixed on the sunset, her mouth is slightly open like it can’t decide what to say, and her face can’t decide whether to smile or frown.
“Twenty-four,” she says, and she does this cute little wriggle in her chair before un-crossing and re-crossing her legs, drawing my eyes again to their curves, their golden glow and that sexy anklet. “Interesting.”
“Interesting how?” I ask.
“Just... interesting,” she says, and a broader smile grows on her lips.
“Well, are you going to put me out of my fecking misery and tell me how oldyouare?” I demand with a laugh.
“I'm...” she starts, but then presses her lips together and squints at me, looking very, very mischievous. “I was going to say I want you to guess, just to have a bit of fun with you, but now I'm petrified you're going to say something ridiculous, and it could be ridiculously old, or it could be ridiculously young. Either way, it won't make me feel good.”
“Why? Growing old is a privilege,” I say without thinking. Feeling, yes, but not thinking.
She blinks at that and has no response.
“So, how about I don't guess,” I offer, because I feel like I owe her this much. “And instead, you tell me what does make you feel good.”
She laughs. “And you're back. I was worried the flirting spirit had left you completely.”
“Never.” I smile, shifting my body so I'm more on my side, facing her.
“Will you survive if I don't tell you how old I am? Like maybe we could just stick to flirting and watching the sun go down and then... well...” She looks down at her drink, and then up at me, her eyelids still low. “I don't know what happens next.”
“Nobody knows what's going to happen next, cupcake,” I say and all I get back is a full-body sigh.
I turn again to look at the sunset even though her side profile with her full lips, freckled cheeks and long neck is a view I could look at just as long. The bottom of the sun is now just seconds away from sinking into the sea and I feel a flood of memories rush in, all of them tinged with a persistent melancholy that I wish I could avoid, just once.
“It's happening,” she says, her voice low.
