In which I am at the beach.

“Sand embeds into her skin and she rubs the bee sting. Hurts because of the sand, grainy, on her fingers.”

This is something I wrote about being stung by the bee at the beach. I wrote it while attempting to mimic the way Spanish is constructed, with it still being intentionally in English. That’s why the adjectives often follow their nouns instead of precede them, and some pronouns have been dropped. Listen to “La Pastilla de Tus Sueños, Pt. 2” by Epilogio while reading. 

The water, blue, cold, frothing against the sand, yellow, dusty. It hits her in the face, the sand, and she hears it. In her ears, it’s in her eyelashes. It’s the most of what she hates about the beach. She could go home, but the lights have gone and it’s been made hot in the rooms. So she puts her arms above her head and stretches out. She can hear: children yelling; the game of a group of men, they use a hard ball and a paddle and they laugh; music from someone close to her; the bell from a man selling ice. The wind blows harder. She rolls to her stomach.

For a moment, rests. Then there is something hot, a pinch on her skin. On her leg. Turns around again, and away goes the bee that stung her. Immediately there is a bump, red, itchy, on her thigh. That she squeezes, tries to get the sting out. The sun is hot. Burns a little bit. Sweat tastes bad on her tongue. Everything around is almost blinding, the shore, yellow, and the ocean, shiny, reflects the sun. Sand embeds into her skin and she rubs the bee sting. Hurts because of the sand, grainy, on her fingers. She sits herself up on the towel. Stretches the bee sting leg in front. The wind calms, the sand stops hitting. With eyes, squinting, seeing things is easier. Blinding less. Her shower at home will be cold. Her fridge will be warm. The sun will be out, slow and still.