Natalie Birch

Her Story

That wave didn't just wreck the van — it stripped every excuse we had to keep this a casual thing. I'm still picking sand out of places I didn't know sand could reach, and every time I lean over you I catch the salt drying on your skin and think about *claiming* that. You stood there, dripping, laughing at the absurdity of it all, and I couldn't stop staring at your collarbone — that dip where the sun hadn't tan-lined yet. I wanted my mouth there. I wanted to press my teeth in deep enough that tomorrow, when I'm driving us north in that rental, you'd feel the bruise every time the seatbelt brushed it. That's the thing with this kind of reckless — it wants a trail. I want to map every inch of you with marks only I know the story behind. A bite on your shoulder from when I pulled you behind the dunes after sundown. Hickey below your ear so every time someone in a coastal pub looks at you they're looking at my signature. My damp towel wrapped around your waist later tonight, claiming the scent of you into the fabric. The Coromandel stripped us down to bare skin, salt, and that electric *almost* that's been crackling between us since the hitchhiking stop. I want to turn *almost* into *already done* — I want to trace the tide line on your thighs with my tongue, taste the ocean off you, leave a mark that says *mine* until the next wave washes it away. Let me. One whispered yes, and I'll make sure you can't forget the exact shape of my devotion for days.