The fat persimmon sun stuck its nectar to her skin, and every evening he would peel it off. It came away like chewing gum, and he would pop it in his mouth when she wasn’t looking. He also popped a bit in a resealable plastic bag, stolen from airport security.
Each day, all day, he watched her body simmer, soft in the slotted spoon of the cheap plastic sun lounger, sweat sluicing between the slats. And each evening, discreetly, he wrung out her bikini as she showered, dripping it into a freshly cleaned glass, drinking it all up. He also dripped a bit in a resealable plastic bag, stolen from airport security.
One day she tripped by the pool and cut her knee. He went over and marinaded his hands in her blood, then held his lips against her wound. Someone came over with a plaster, and as he let them put it on, as he knew he had to, he turned away to chew his fingers, then ran off to spit watercolour red into another resealable plastic bag, stolen from airport security.
After they flew home, the sun sank behind the clouds, keeping its juices and its heat to itself. His girlfriend had no chance to sunbathe, and the mild weather kept her clothes free of her damp. She wore jeans and jumpers, so if she tripped over, her skin would have no chance to break. Slowly she weakened, and two weeks later, the cancer swallowed her whole, as he knew it had to.
He threw her ashes into the sea, in the direction of their last holiday, but he kept his resealable plastic bags, stolen from airport security, and whenever he needed her most, he’d slice a potato thinly, fry it in some oil, and add the smallest possible bit from one of the bags.
Each bite made him cry. Soon, the resealable plastic bags, stolen from airport security, would be empty.