BREEZES

BREEZES

         Loss of light is always a bad omen, and here it was the first sign. Whether coincidence or effect we cannot be sure; the hotel with its basic facilities was certainly not the most smoothly-run establishment.
         She reaches behind her to open the door, the couple talking in slightly hushed tones and with smiles in their voices. She fumbles for the light-switch as they enter giggling, her other arm around his neck. Then darkness. A groan.
“Oh no.” Him. A sigh.
“Power cut.” Her.

         The lights are down for the whole building, it seems. My first instinct, bizarrely, is to put on my glasses before finding a torch. My hand is clumsy fumbling for my pack, and my breathe intakes sharply as a zip grazes my knuckles.
         A snaking cool arm on the back of my neck. A hand on my throat. A single finger pressing my chin from below as I stand. Lips, close I can tell but not touching, warm air on me as she suppresses a giggle, then fingers round mine, leading. I hang my body back from my arm as I follow, feigning reluctance.

         With minimal sight the other senses are heightened. The corridor is cooler, with a slight breeze and a palpable drop in pressure. A slight antiseptic smell emanates from the floor, the tiles are cold and slightly clammy on the soles of the feet.

         We kiss - unsure of ourselves, hesitating to judge distances - leaning against the iron banister at the top of the stairs. She sits on it and shivers when her centre of gravity tries to topple her, her nails clutching my shirt. We kiss outside number 36 next door where the friendly middle age Danish couple stay, we kiss outside where the portly man and the tall woman are having an affair, I lick her neck outside the room we saw kids bustle into two days ago, she bites my shoulder outside number 43 where the kindly man who leers at her grows old. We kiss pressed up against doors, imagining the lonely woman who shoots us frowns on the other side, pressed up against rooms empty or with occupants unknown, missing each other in the darkness, catching the side of the mouth or mashing our lips into our teeth. Twice the entrances are opened and we flee, reduced to children in the anonymity, feeling at one with the darkness that proves to them a hindrance.

         Light again. The sensation is at first painful after its withdrawal, the pupils shrink and eyelids squint. They are quick to retire to their room, uncloaked and vulnerable to discovery and reproach. The rest of the night is spent in a controlled, soothing darkness.

         After the power resumed we forgot to turn the fan on. We wake clothed in sheets, they cling to our body-hair with sweat, our faces reddened and our limbs feeling unrested. She groans and rolls over, so I get up and switch on the fan. As the machine begins its rhythmic soundtrack we lie in the light and drift into half-sleep, clutching each other with only the enveloping sheets between our bodies.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

         It begins with water. They were foolish to swim, naïve interpreting the loneliness of the beach as good fortune; she unaware of news reports, he unable to decipher their Mediterranean tongue.
         The monstrous wave that catches them and makes all others irrelevant is at odds with the heat, incongruous with the sunshine, not meant for the glorious weather or their glorious day. Two bodies are tossed like straw, underpinned and overwhelmed by foam and spray and raging water.

         ah fuck my eyes salt in my eyes oh fuck oh fuck my lungs my chest can’t breathe something hard on my knee ah shit it cut me air air for a second against my hand above the spray push your head up ah fuck my neck I can’t do it this is it I’m going to die oh lord please don’t let me die oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck don’t let her die please please sand feel it there it’s there under your hand shit its gone where is she an elbow no a shoulder hold on don’t let go oh please don’t make me let go fuck fuck fuck where is she where is she where is she air air air air air air

         Placid. The eye of the storm brings eerie silence, an unnatural half-darkness and colder climes. The two bodies deposited on the beach are embedded into the sand, their sinews flowing with the surface ripples caused by the onslaught of wind and wave. Their limbs and head are utterly still but their lungs heave, gorging on air. His arms move as if for the first time, unsure of whether they have strength in them to take his weight, his jaw opens and rib muscles spasm, as if giving birth through the mouth, but silently, muted but for the guttural sounds of choking. She rolls on her side – even that slight movement alive with pain – and sobs as her stomach heaves and she spews sea water.
         Two arms stretch, overworking their sapped muscles, searching for each other. The contact is snatchy, and they come together and pull each other in clumsily, lacking the energy or confidence for more positive movement. Pressed against each other they are the hurricane, a concentrate of energy and force, chaotic, furious and unabating.

         Her mouth and tongue are hot, I can taste salt on her lips and I think how awful I must taste, grains of sand in our mouths. The taste of salt and sweetness and life mixing in one corner - she’s cut her lip on one side, the thick feeling of blood on my teeth making me realise how much saline water is in both our mouths. We do not care. There’s seaweed peeling down my face and I can feel my own blood slowly flowing, my cheek grazed, her hair is wet and between the fibres coarse, our clothes chafing and sodden but we are burning up, energy pumping into our wasted bones.
         She allows herself to smile first and I follow, relief bursting out of our expressions, our heads shivering with something almost like laughter. I grow aware of other pains, a cut behind my knee, whiplash on my neck, bruised fingers but I ignore them, make them peripheral and harmless.

         At the first sign of the storm’s return they react, moving up the sand in search of refuge. The beach hut is in bad repair but provides warmth and on looking beyond the peeling yellow paint was sturdy enough to afford some amount of shelter. They huddle in a corner, cowering from the malevolent foe without, their flesh interlocking as if one organism. Wind replaces wave as the threat yet now they are prepared and expectant. By miracle, chance or sheer structural engineering the hut resists and stands.

         It’s not all that dark but my eyes instinctively close, in fear and disacceptance of the outside world. I feel cool fingers on my wrist and they snap open but she closes them again, tenderly. Her touch on my palm is so soft. Between the slats at one point the wood is warped, a chink lets in light and cold and wind; she guides me there, holding my fingers with just the tips of her own.
         “Can you feel it?” It’s just a breeze.
“Ummmm….” She lets go of my hand but presses my elbow to show I should remain still. I can sense her hand above mine, fingers splayed, doing the same. I remember the power of the storm, the water lashing my face and twisting my body, the feeling of sand against my broken chest. The same energy, that same raw force, now dances round my hand. It feels like sparks or frosted breath… no it doesn’t. It feels like nothing I ever felt before.
         “Can you feel it now?”
“Yes.” I reach for her other hand and clasp it. We’re in a beach hut. I know this, we’re in a hut made of wood and paint with seawater and old beer. But it feels like we’re floating, and everything inside me is outside, swirling around us like the dancing traces of the storm around our trembling fingertips.

         The lights are back on when they return to the hotel. It seems smaller and less foreign than yesterday. One of the lights on the side of the bed flickers so they turn it off and make do. He can’t seem to focus, his movements distracted and his gaze distant. She’s shaking; one hand, quivering fragilely as she packs toiletries from the pale bathroom.
         The perfume falls as he passes the windowsill, silently escaping the unsteady grip of his hand while he is distracted with concern for her’s. It smashes and the delicate glass makes constellations on the floor. He gasps and fear flickers across his face. She clasps his hand with both of hers, the shaking ceased. Silently she lets him know it’s OK.
         They hold each other; facing the window they watch as the town comes to life, absorbed in the aftermath, the destruction and the unwelcome change. Scent rises up from the shards on the carpet: the aroma of roses; fumes of ethanol; promises - of love and of something new.