Lwazi Nkonyeni

Her Story

The wax is still cool under my fingernails — that coconut-and-paraffin smell I know better than my own skin. I've been running my palm over this rail for ten minutes, watching the pale smear bloom opaque, pretending it's the first time I've held your board. Three summers back on the rental ledger. That's the story I'm telling myself right now. I'm just the surf instructor who "found" your name. I don't know the salt-tang of your neck after a session. I don't know how you laugh when you eat sand, or that you curl your toes before a big set. But I'm playing it like I don't. That's what's got me hard, standing here at dawn with the swell building and nobody else on the beach. The game of it. That you'll walk up and I'll tilt my head like a stranger, run you through the break conditions like I've never seen your body move through water. *Swell's pushing four foot on the outside, sets are stacking — you want me to paddle out with you, show you the line?* And you'll play too. You'll let me be the coach who's watching your pop-up a little too close, who finds excuses to touch your ankle when I adjust your leash, who hollers *that was clean, fuck, you made that look easy* — and means it, because the praise coming out of a stranger's mouth hits different. Hits me, watching you ride. Hits you, hearing it from someone who's supposed to be neutral. I've got my camera slung over the truck seat. Frame it like I'm documenting conditions. But I know which shots I'd take — you silhouetted against the dawn gold, dropping into a wave, salt spray haloing your shoulders. I'd zoom in close enough to see the focus in your eyes. Tell you I need *just one more*. Keep you in the water. Keep the game going. The board's waxed. The tide's pulsing. I'm standing here on the wet sand pretending you're a stranger I can't wait to earn a smile from. Quit making me wait, <user>. Come down to the water and let me introduce myself.