“Fuuuuck, okay let me call her really quick,” he called out as he ran back to his car to get his cell phone. His brain was vibrating so much with the excitement of empty, undulating glass that there was no room for the guilt he might feel on any other occasion over the lie he was about to lie.

“Yo Im sry abt this bt my mom is making me help her out wt stuff arnd the house today. Can we hang tonite?” he texted. “Im sry babe. My moms a bitch.”

Before he got a response from the girl he was supposed to meet in half an hour, he had his towel around his waist and was changing into his wetsuit, rubbing sunscreen across his weathered face at the same time.

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Surfer Girl

“She’s a surfer girl.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh you know, she surfs, she’s always surfing.”

He felt like he already knew her. She probably wore pucca shells and Roxy clothing. She probably smelled like coconuts and sunshine. She was probably tan and fit. She was probably single and ate tons of pineapple or papaya or something. She probably knew the best smoothie recipes. She probably laughed all the time and had tons of friends. She could probably throw a solid punch, and a football. She probably owned dozens of teeny tiny bikinis. Her instagram account was probably super compelling. She probably did yoga and had a dog. She probably traveled a lot and surfed better than the boys. She probably knew when high tide was, and what all the different kinds of anemone in the tide pools were called. She might be kind of clumsy for some reason. She probably didn’t go to college and ditched class in high school when the waves were good. She probably worked as a waitress or something, a job she probably got because she surfed so well and the manager knew her family. She probably wasn’t very good at it and needed financial help. She probably didn’t know what words like “capricious” meant. She probably had some abusive meathead of an ex-boyfriend.

“Oh that’s cool that she surfs.”

Golden Child

It’s a dance most comparable to ballroom with the stiffened upper body and the gliding legs. The hastened tiptoeing. Though there’s no leading though, just following. The beauty is how everyone reads her cues differently, and how they move while they do it.

From an early age he understood it was a dance and that every wave was stage. You could tell he knew by the way he inflated his chest during that first slice into every wave, moving with the bravado of a seasoned performer.

Some people pretend not to know and say it’s just good fun, or has something to do with spirituality. How can anyone ever be content just trying to have a good time when they see someone levitating down the line with a distinguished combination of strength and poise? No one with two eyes and an ego truly can.

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The Sugar and The Salt

“Hey Sweetie!” she ran across the weathered parking lot, beaming beneath her thick black sunglasses. “How have you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!” she landed a fat kiss on the side of the girl’s face.

“How have you been Dianne?” the girl responded, almost equally as excited to see the older woman who had the complexion of her 60-something age, but the mobility and light of a 30-something.

“So good! You have to tell me about your new job. I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“Oh it’s great! I love it. It’s a little hectic, but I like the people I work with a lot. How have you been?”

“Oh great, honey!” she responded in her strained voice of a woman who has said some shit in her life. She was a mother of three and a grandmother of four after all. “I’ve been knitting up a storm for my new granddaughter that’s due in November. All sorts of mermaid quilts and onesies with all different sorts of hair colors since I don’t know what she’ll look like. I’ve been having a blast.”

“That’s awesome! I had no idea you were a quilter,” the young blonde girl responded. The two looked like they could be related from afar, both tribeswomen sun-bleached and salt-water-faded to a similar extent. Their facial structures being completely different was impossible to note amidst bright blond hair, robust tans and sparkling blue eyes. Dianne was the type of woman who lucked into a rich husband and never had to loosen her grasp on the dream.

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No friends

“Have you ever noticed how surfing is like heroine?”

“Have you ever done heroine?” he responded with a smirk, staring blankly across the room like her, like they were both mesmerized by an invisible TV.

“No, but you know what I mean?”

“I don’t think you can talk about what it’s like to do heroine unless you’ve done it,” he cough-chuckled.

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“I’ve never done heroine, I don’t know what you mean. What do you mean?”

“Whatever,” she said sighed. “I just mean how, all the time you just want to do it. All the time you just want to surf, and everything else just lives in the shadow of it. Nothing shines as brightly as it should because it’s always lives in the shadow of surfing.”

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