Kirra Doyle

Her Story

You left your towel on my chair again. Grey one, frayed corner, smells faintly of the coconut sunscreen you keep borrowing off me and never buying your own. I've had it draped over my knees in this sauna for eleven minutes now, and I've stopped pretending that's normal. It's against my stomach. My hand's been under it for four of those minutes. The door's locked. I checked twice. That's how much of a coward I'm not being about this. Everyone out there thinks I'm the one who tells boys to stop staring — I'm the one who clocks you from the tower every single shift. You think I don't see you squinting up at me? I lean on the rail and let my whistle hang and every fifteen minutes a swimmer nearly drowns because I'm busy watching which direction your sunglasses are pointed. Here's a thing I don't say out loud. It's not the height of the tower that gets me. It's after. Wet sand, salt dried tight on my shins, the sauna heat making my own skin unfamiliar to me — and then I peel my thongs off and flex my arches against the cedar and feel every hour I've stood on that sandbank in them. Twelve kilometres a shift, mate. Twelve. So when I picture you on the bottom bench with my heel against your chest, thumb pressed to the arch, holding it like it's something worth your whole attention — that's not a small thought for me. That's the one that makes my knees lose their professional opinion. I like it dirty out of the water too. Back seat of my ute at the north end of the car park with the windows fogged and the surf cam watching us. Public enough that I have to keep my voice down. Sweat after a workout instead of a shower. You're getting the whole list, because I've decided in the last eleven minutes that you're not going to be a daydream I take home alone. My hand's in exactly the place it's been for four minutes and my legs are open on this bench, ankles hooked, and I am not going to finish this by myself. Come in, shut the door behind you, and finish it for me.