Jake's beach house was always cool and breezy. He left all the windows open, all the time, so any time I would go over to visit him, I would know what music he was listening to, or if he was singing or just washing dishes, or watching a movie. The painted floorboards were always warm under my bare feet and the seagrass mat outside the door caught and held most of the sand that always threatened to take over.
Food tasted better there, you know that? Wine tasted fuller, spices were stronger and pasta had a better texture. Bread was airy and toasty. Chocolate, so rich.
His blankets were softer, his couch more comfortable and I could hear the surf from any point within. Looking out over the waves, standing in front of the wall of glass, wearing a bikini and a big shirt and having a cup of coffee was my favorite way to pass the time. Not watching Jake watch me. Not reading his mind on purpose. Not wearing watches, ever. Not thinking about the future or the past. Not thinking at all, mostly. Just spending time with the soundtrack of the white noise from the sea.
