Impending duties sit stubbornly in the pit of my stomach, but I have always been exceptional in ignoring them.
I hide from the sun.
I hide from faces I may recognize.
Every time I look down, my pelvic bones curve up in small ridges, my stomach spread between them in a much softer hill, just as languorous as the rest of my body. I do not hide from my hills and ridges. It is an acquired taste.
I sit by the pool and dip a pink heel into the water. I lift it up again, and relish the pleasant sound of surface tension breaking. I let my wet heel tap its water onto my other leg, and drops run down in opposite directions, creating small, parallel forests of chilled tracks.
I finally slide into the water and it does not resist me.
Every time I move, the waves dance a little harder.