the emotional turmoil of unspoken desire.

The beach, the sea, the sand. White gulls circle above yellow shells half-buried. The wind presses against your face. Dark clouds of rain smear the horizon, as the waves roll in, and the sun splits open the sky.

But he stands out.

You watch him swim, and dive, and later stretch out on the sand.

You paint the dark hair, the long, lean legs, the way his black swimsuit clings to his hips. The sharp angles of his face, the sun-bleached goatee, the three-day stubble.

But you can’t see his eyes. And you don’t know if he carries pain inside. Why does he come here every day at the same time, to swim? There is nothing special about this beach. No dolphins, no fishermen, no boats slicing the horizon. Only water, and the rise and fall of the tide, the pull of the current.

Each day, he swims farther, beyond the break to the farthest buoy. He reaches it, pulls off his goggles, rests before turning back and steps onto shore. Water spills from him in rivulets. He does not dry himself as he walks away. And once again, you are alone.

That feeling, the one that gnaws at the edge of your ribs, the one that keeps you, prepares you, walks you, plays you like Catherine Jenkins and Jason Mraz, but never satisfies.

You know you want him. It does not cross your mind that he may not want you. You expect him to want. Your longing is not bound by desire alone, but something deeper—friendship, recognition. Tomorrow, you will approach him. You will tell him; I have been watching you from my house. I know you come here every day. It’s not that I have been stalking you, but I have painted you. I hope you don’t mind.

No. That is too much. Too mad. You will say something simple. Hi. You will smile, say his name if he gives it to you. He does not need to know everything. Not yet. And maybe he will look at you with confusion, or indifference.

What if he doesn’t come tomorrow? No! He will come. He always does. Same time. Same place. And he does.

You lean against the patio post, binoculars pressed to your eyes. He strips down to the familiar black swimsuit, for the second time now you notice the bulge in his swim trunk as he runs into the sea and disappears into the foam. On the beach, the waves erase his footprints.

He does not see you, or maybe he does.

What if he has a pretty wife? Children? No. You cannot think that way. You gather your strength, leave the patio, step onto the sand. Your pulse hammers. You stop once. Hesitation, like loneliness, Plays you. But you have rehearsed this.

Suddenly, he is running from the water and nearly collides with you.

—Hey! Sorry, I didn’t see you sitting there. So sorry. —

You lift your hands in a small gesture. —No… no problem. —

He grins, breathless. —Man, the sea is rough today. —

You look past him at the restless waves beyond. —I didn’t notice, — but you did notice.

What you did not notice is the absence of his shadow on the sand!

—It’s okay, though. I love it. —

You brush sand from your jeans. —I live over there, in that house. —

—You and your wife? —

—No. Just me. —

—I’m William, — he says.

—I’m Liam. —

—It’s been great meeting you, Liam. Hope to see you again. Soon. —

His voice is kind. It holds no weight. No expectation. It drifts, like the tide.

As he walks away, you whisper, —Tomorrow. —

He turns, smiles. —Tomorrow. —

Ƨ

Tomorrow. You hold onto the word, fold it into yourself like some great secret. Back inside your cottage, you pour a glass of wine. You do not want to scare him away. You must keep your excitement in check. At your easel, you lift the brush. At last, you can see his face. And now, you think, you know him.

Outside, the wind drives the rain into the sea in sheets and slants against your windows. The hour comes and there is no sign of him. The rain blurs the shore into sky, sea into mist. Maybe it was never meant to be.

Then—a knock, faint, nearly lost in the wind. You don't hesitate. Open the door. He is there, rain-darkened hair dripping, a smile curving his mouth as if the storm is nothing.

—You… you came. —

—The sea’s too wild to swim, — he says, peeling his shirt away from his skin. —Strong backwash today. —

His nakedness triggers your groin into action. Step back. You can’t rely on lust to carry through a relationship and that’s what this man is. Relationship material, not a piece of meat dangling before you, playing with the intense desire in your jeans.

Your mind screams out for his body, but what will remain afterwards if not shame and sadness? You want to know him. Get to know him. It’s like he completes you. Behind your eyes, in your mind, you’re kissing, sucking his chin, pinching tight nipples...

—Wait! — Your voice hangs in the air.

He scrunches his forehead. His lips tighten and he steps back.

—What? —

—I bet you’re hungry. —

—Yes, I am, but…—

—That settles it then. I’ll make lunch for us. —

He sits on a kitchen chair as you prepare prawns and oysters, tomato and cucumber, in silence.

—I’m sure I said something wrong, — he says.

—It’s me, not you. I…I’m nervous. —

He stares without saying a word.

—I’m afraid that you’ll reject me. —

He climbs off the chair and approaches. Reaches out. Fingers lightly caress your face. Like the ocean itself, luring you deeper before you realize you cannot escape. His kiss is short but meaningful, —Reject you? On the contrary, I would love to get to know you better. —

—You have no idea how much that means to me. —

Your eyes are closed as he kisses your nervousness away in a predatory seduction. And you don't see his eyes as they turn from grey to a glowing, golden yellow.

You don't see his lips turning into a wry smile.

You don't see that he is more than you expected.

He is the unexpected.

You both stand in the wan light of the kitchen as he kisses you, and your hands curl around his waist but his tongue is cold in your mouth and your eyes snap open.

In the reflection in the kitchen window you see yourself,

holding onto air

embracing nothing.