Poolside, my drink hasn’t arrived. The Russian boy with the dimpled nipples smiles an ungracious smile at the waiter; he has his drink, I still don’t have mine. Mum rubs lotion on her chest and I rest the pages of Letters in Love against my still wet body and fashion a gracious smile as the letters bleed.
The entire flight was spent thinking of you and consuming drinks. The pressure in my ears was unbearable. When we landed I held Letters in Love over a rubbish bin filled with foreign packaging and tissues. But this item wasn’t mine and it didn’t deserve such a fate.
My drink arrives and Mum’s brown body now has a tinge of shiny white.
