Beach Series: Hug Point
When we drove to the beach, I packed a bottle of Riesling and hard-boiled eggs and you drove. We left the city in late morning and the road simmered with heat, weaving through steep hills and evergreens. We passed the Elderberry Diner with its stuffed bear and rough truckers, and I told you that my family used to stop there every summer, like a ritual, like a religion, but we did not stop.
We drove until we smelled the ocean and we were drunk on sea breeze, we were drunk on discovery and loving each other, and we drove south to Hug Point. My swimsuit itched against my hipbone skin, I traced my fingers down the sweat on your neck, and in that moment I was recklessly yours, desperate for your affection.
