Judgment
By Christine Breede
My friend tells me about Croatia, black sand, and sunsets while we settle on a grassy spot between the local lake and a campsite. We stretch out, laugh, and talk.
Outside their weathered camping trailer with a side awning, not close enough to hear them, a man and a woman face each other in red and blue bathing suits. Two shaded profiles in public.
I tell my friend about my trip into the past and the odd feeling of finding – or as my friend suggests, recycling - old friends.
The man and woman sit on striped folding chairs, separated by a square folding table with half-filled glasses. I get a glimpse of the kitchen inside their trailer. A dish towel hangs, folded.
We go for a swim. The water is cool and we gasp and giggle. We fall back onto our spa-size towels and talk, always talk. At home, I’ll wash off the lake water and sunscreen.
The woman adjusts one strap of her bathing suit and crosses her pale-gray legs.
My friend tells me she's worried about her partner being so much older. I tell her age is subjective, death unpredictable, and her man a good man.
The man and woman sit opposite from each other at the exact same angle as one hour ago. Occasionally, a limb moves, a small adjustment is made, seemingly in silence.
We go for a drink and are sent back angrily because we cannot enter the restaurant in bathing suits. We shrug and huff and turn around. The pebbles underneath my feet hurt. We take a grassier route.
The woman straightens her spine a little, lifts her head, and gazes at the lake and then at the man who doesn’t seem to notice. The light under the awning of their van is as pale as water.
We talk about facials, unwanted and wanted curves, and intimacy. We brought magazines but we can’t stop talking.
In their own space in public, a man with a hairy chest and a curvy woman lean back in their striped folding chairs opposite each other. The woman’s hair is not gray yet and ends exactly on her shoulder blades.
I gaze at the lake and feel a moment of calm, almost wonder, before we clear our space as quickly as we occupied it, pack our bikes, and move on.
In passing, I stare at the woman, now close enough to study her face. She doesn’t look back and doesn’t move. She seems to be elsewhere but also in herself. Her skin is smooth like porcelain. She looks happy.
THE END
Author Bio: Christine holds an MS from Columbia University, serves as a speech therapist for the International School of Geneva, and organizes writers’ workshops and conferences. Her work has been published online and in print and has been recognized by several leading contests. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2020 and has won the 2022 Bumble Bee Flash Fiction Contest. Working and collaborating with fellow writers is one of the things she enjoys the most. Twitter: @christinebree13; Instagram: christinebreede; Facebook: Christine Breede; Website: christinebreede.com.