She sits and sizzles at the poolside. Hot skin, cold fingertips, resting on her sweating glass of drink. Vivid blues of chlorinated water and powdery sky, hold up weeping palm trees and orange mountains lost in steam. Wet footprints across the concrete soon fade in the sun. She can smell the tyres burning on oven baked cars struggling to cool down; the sweet, Hawaiian Tropic on her knees and thighs; the sweat that is crawling down her neck. It is late afternoon, the saddest time of day, and not long to wait before the wicked night’s crush. But there is bliss to be found in this everyday hell. She finds hers between his mouth and hands. Beneath his feet and within his chest. A ten minute drive away at the fluorescent red slushy machine, tongue stained, brain numb, frostbitten lips to kiss him with. There is bliss to be found in this monotonous paradise. In the hum of the fan that puts him to sleep. The scent of a brand new shampoo. The white light that pours in past midday and illuminates the rising dust like holy ash from the burning wings of an angel shamed. She sips her drink, to watch the sky descend into unearthly sanguine, and observe the shadows creep, threatening to grasp her ankles and drown her in the lukewarm pool. There is bliss somewhere amidst all this.
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