Fiction: Sunbathing

When, besides the shower, was he ever naked? The wind was what made it a thing, and the sun, curling under to dry between his legs. He felt awkward there, exposed, his thighs open to let the wind move around but not so much that his legs would touch much of the silver roof underneath the towel. The whole roof was like the backdrop of a high-school dance, painted with silver of varying reflectivity, some dull, some very metallic, up to the walls that made it square, an empty rooftop pool and both of them at the bottom.

Sunbathing was a silly choice, here in the foil tray along the hot ridges of the Tin Man’s lungs, but she had asked and he had accepted, unable to muster any defense except the essential two: she had a man; he didn’t tan, but burned. Yet here he was, his head on a pile of his own clothes, sprawled uncomfortably beyond the bounds of a beach towel with a cartoon guinea pig on it, not a foot away from her in her nakedness, taking shallow breaths to hold back trembling and an erection.

Two friends, or not really friends exactly, with nothing between their bodies and the sun but a couple of miles of atmosphere and eight minutes of space. She moved first and was not subtle.

Image: Emry