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I sat. The sand gave under me like a warm hand. I pulled my knees to my chest and watched the sun go down like it was being paid to.
Pink, orange, a violent dark gold, then a purple so rich it looked fake. I’d spent ten years in a flat in Didsbury being told I had unrealistic expectations of beauty. Here it was, for free, with a margarita.
And I was fine. That was the surprising thing. I was sitting alone on a beach in the dusk with nobody to perform for, and I was properly fine. My skin hummed with sun. I could feel exactly where my own body started and ended. The wanting was still there, sleek and low in my stomach, but it wasn’t desperate any more. It was a choice.
Footsteps in the sand.
I didn’t need to turn round. Mateo set two small glasses of mezcal down beside me and sat on my left, a respectful foot away, still in his white shirt. He smelled of limes and salt.
“Fifteen minutes’ break,” he said. “I wanted to bring you a drink. And to say I’m sorry if I was too much at the bar.”
“You weren’t.”
“And I wanted to look at your face while you watched this.” He nodded at the horizon. “It’s the best seat on the whole coast.”
Our knees touched. Neither of us moved them. The wind lifted the hem of my sarong, and his eyes followed it up my thigh. The glass was cool in my hand. The sea was very loud.
“What do you want, Sophie?” he asked quietly. “Honestly.”