The Summer Girl

The summer girl wears lilies in her hair and sunlight on her skin, always. She favors skimpy silk dresses and is partial to boys with curls. She kisses a number of them, lips reckless in the moonlight, until she finds her favorite, the one without tan lines. 

He is so smitten that he forgets his own name until she gives it back to him, murmured over and over into his hot skin while the rest of the world slumbers. In the morning his eyes shine and his limbs glow. All of his friends are jealous.

The couple spends long afternoons lounging on the beach or splashing in the sea and at night they chase fireflies. They have not spent more than a few moments apart since they met; their entire world is comprised of one shared delight after another, each pursued with a leisurely disdain for time. And then the nights turn crisp.

He is surprised to discover that she owns neither jacket nor socks. He slips his sweater over her head, but it is not enough to stop her shivering. The next day he wakes to a cold pillow and a puddle of silk on the floor. He cradles the dress in his arms and weeps her name into it, but the summer girl is gone.

For months he pines for her touch, dreams her shape back into the bed beside him. He sees her face in every passing cloud and shouts his love for her into the sky until he is hoarse with longing. Eventually her memory fades to a whisper only, but for the rest of his life, the scent of lilies instills heartache.