Middle east resort.
Women with hair and bodies covered giggle by the Red Sea, which is actually quite blue—and windy.
The women in bikinis stroll by, pretending to be more empowered, as we worry about our thighs and the size of our breasts, and whether we are still pleasing to men.
But it all disappears the moment we all hit the water—skin prickles and all is awake and here.
The whole world stops, and is cold, but new and fresh and blue and a whole other way of being underneath. Coral and fish and white, white sand going deeper.
On the shore, a middle-aged couple with sandy shoes and backpacks eat yummy-looking ice cream and don’t smile—not even a little.
And another couple reads to each other and smiles for no reason.
The sea smell and strong tea start to heal my runny nose. My mind stops for a moment and is present, like when I hit the cold water. Arabic music—the slow, haunting kind, begins at the restaurant. The wind stills. A fly alights.
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