The Geometry of Artificial Sunsets

The sun is a vulgar thing today, bleeding over the horizon like an unwashed wound. I hide beneath this parasol—a portable sanctuary of polyester and wire—trying to convince myself that 'healing' is what I’m seeking. They say the ocean mends what the city breaks, but all I feel is the salt crusting on my skin and the heavy weight of my own expectations pressing against my ribs like a corset.
I watch the faces around me: desperate for tan lines, hungry for a glance from someone who doesn't look at their phones. My bikini is a shade of pink so soft it feels like an apology for how much I actually want to be consumed. I am not here to find peace; I am here to be found by someone who understands that the most seductive form of intimacy is the way we lie to ourselves about why we’re standing in the heat alone.
A shadow falls over me, and for a moment, the artificial shade feels like a lover's touch. Is it healing? Or is it just another layer of skin I put on to survive the day? Maybe the real romance isn't in the meeting, but in the way we pretend the silence between us isn't screaming with everything we’re too afraid to say aloud.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach