Elodie removed the sparkly orange nail polish from her cabinet and examined it in the palm of her hand. She never wore nail polish or makeup, and yet there was something nostalgic about it. Elodie removed the applicator gently, wiping the excess sunset-shade on her leg. It was gritty, old, and yet opulent, the golden specks glittering in the midst of the neon apricot. She had never been very good at painting her own nails, overlapping the polish onto her cuticles and edges of her fingers. So, to control her shaky left hand, she pinned herself down to her table and clamped her fingers down with her elbow. She pulled the brush out once more, a gout of orange dripping at its end. With a broad stroke down each of her fingers she painted her right hand, before moving onto the left that was significantly easier. Sticky and wet, it undulated the window's light across her nails. She pursed her lips and blew on them gently, before resting back into her wicker chair.

The light was thickening as the sun dipped below the horizon of the bay, turning her silk curtains into a shower of sparkles that frolicked across her walls and ceiling. It ran across the skin on her back between her panties and bra, shimmering along each strand in her hair. Her lips caught the light as well, plump and swollen, like her eyes. She rubbed them with the back of her hand once more and tested the surface of pinky nail, and the polish transferred to her finger. She left the nail messed up, placing the polish bottle back into the cabinet with her third finger and thumb.

On turning around Elodie noticed the sheer intensity and hue of the dusk light, and simultaneously noticed herself in the mirror. It would be a lie if one said she didn't see an intrinsically ethereal beauty in herself at that moment, from her sharp collar bone to the curve of her lower hips. Her hair tumbled down to her shoulders, curls glowing as they caressed her neck and upper back.

It was at that moment she decided to paint herself. In a swift sequence of actions she assembled a wooden board and some cartridge paper on the bed and arranged herself on the duvet so that she could pose and look in the mirror at the same time. She would use ink and a brush, the pot precariously balanced on the wooden board, the remnants of a glossy ebony liquid oozing around the base of its container (she should have bought some more in town, but she had been running on this ink for a year).

The duvet ran up around her ankles; she posed on her knees, her legs bent, leaning over the paper, slightly twisted when viewed from the mirror. The window cast light on her legs and the right side of her body, the sweat from her evening jog apparent on the joint at her hip.

The first few strokes were peaceful, the ink going on thick and smooth, capturing the elements she saw in herself. She followed by adding further detail, a u shaped curve for her upper breast, a v at her neck, her face blank. She left it, scared to use the thick, dense ink brush to portray her delicate features. 

There was a thud at the door, as someone attempted to come in.

"Elodie." her mother said from the other side, twisting the doorknob. It was locked. "Why didn't you come to dinner? We started at 9:30 like i told you and now its ten i doubt it'll still be warm for you."

"I wasn't hungry mama." Elodie had forgotten how long it stayed light for in the Caribbean summer.

"It's on the kitchen table if you want it. The guests and I are going to bed." Her voice was muffled through the wood.

"Goodnight mama. I'll see you tomorrow."

Her mother left without wishing Elodie goodnight, which Elodie took a note of. Peculiar it was, but perhaps she was just tired from the long day. Despite everything that had happened that day, every item Elodie had bent lower to burden upon her back, she felt awake, lustful for something to do. Dipping her brush into the ink once more, she looked up at her face in the mirror, and brought the tip to the paper. With three brush strokes Elodie began to describe the darker side to the right of her nose, leaving almond slits as eyes. But upon resting the brush on the paper to depict her mouth, she knew almost immediately she had got it wrong.

It was hard to look at a piece of art you considered flawed, worse so when it was a self portrait.

And even worse so on a day like that.

She couldn't look at it, let alone gift it with her gaze. And so she took it in her hands, and ripped the head away from the body. It was easy to fix things like this; simply cut out the efect. Split the frangible skin, dig through the brawny flesh, remove the bastardised tumour. She threw the paper with the head in her windowsill flowers; and put the other half in her bedside draw. She needed some fresh air. Now.

The darkness was accumulating on the side of the valley now, she could see through her window. She didn't bother with shoes, simply her little cotton night dress, if she were to bump into a guest. (a?  the?)

It was hot outside.

The air was sweet.

Elodie made her way down the pebbled path briskly, avoiding the insects that could be sidling between each rock. The kitchen wasn't lit, so upon feeling its tiles under her soles she  went to turn on the light. The switch slumbered beside another door, its frame looking across and down onto the valley. The door was open, and through it she saw him.

He sat in the right deckchair of the two on the mountain lawn, his silhouette towards her. She wanted to know what he was thinking. She wanted split his skull and look upon his honeyed mind. She couldn't lie to herself. He looked magnificent.

Perhaps he was worthy of her artistry. Perhaps she should draw him.

She decided to not turn on the light. See, if he noticed her, the very aesthetics she wished to capture would be crushed in his self awareness. And so she fumbled (  silently ) across the counters, picked up her bowl (the aroma of lemon and pig fat danced around it) and ascended, in a sprightly manner, back up to her room.

She could see him from her window, as she arranged her pencils and such below the windowsill. She didn't want to turn the light on, it would douse her eyes in luminescence, obstructing the analysis of a dark figure. The moonlight would be enough to illuminate her paper and the scene before her. She kept looking at him as she organised her desk further, lifting her chair carefully from the other side of the room and putting it in place.

She sat and watched him.

She started to draw his outline, gently a first, the strokes growing vigorous as she engaged with darker areas. He didn't move much, lifting his newly lit cigarette to his lips every 15 seconds, as he stared out into the bay. At times she just looked at him.

And then he looked at her.

Looking at him.

It must have been halfway through the drawing. He turned, slowly, inquisitively, and looked. It can't be that he had heard her, she had been silent the whole time. He smiled when he saw her, stared for a little while, as she stared back, and then turned back to his view.

She froze after this for a little while. But then she got up. She stood for a little while. A conversation wouldn't harm her. She was bored anyway. The drawing wouldn't have lasted much longer. And perhaps she should explain herself.

It was even hotter outside.

She walked slowly up towards the lawn, unsure of herself. Maybe he had looked back, and seen her gone. But more likely, he didn't care.

The leaves that flanked the path were wet, dripping in condensation. The plants along the edge flourished in this wetness, curling and winding into the jungle- like flora beside them. The opening to the lawn grew as she neared it, the star-studded sky revealing itself like a billowing cloak. The navy enveloped everything, even the mountain side, and the crescent of each wave caught a slither of silver.

He came into view as soon as she reached the summit of the path, as he stared, stared out down into the bay. He exhaled and the smoke meandered and crinkled up above his head, his hand drooping over the arm rest of his deckchair.

She approached him slowly, nearing the back of his chair with each step her bare feet took over the saturated grass. Upon reaching his chair she bent down and aligned her lips with his ear, and whispered 'Alexander'.

He didn't flinch. He didn't even turn.

"Rather lovely."

Elodie brought herself to the chair beside him, and he still didn't look at her.

"What is?" she queried.

"That," he replied, still looking out onto the bay. "You really have yourself a delightful island."

Lowering herself into the chair, Elodie realised she was only wearing her nightdress.

"Dora has gone to bed," he added. "Today really took it out of her."

He took one more puff, and rested his hand back down, dangling next to hers.

"Can i?" she asked gently, looking down at the cigarette, and as she did so, without looking at her, he nudged it into her fingers. She fumbled with it and his hand for a second as she took hold of it, bringing it to her lips and taking a long inhale. He stared ahead.

"You don't seem too happy today either," he added, taking the cigarette back out of her hands as she exhaled.

She swallowed, shuffling her feet in the wet, wet grass.

"No, not feeling the best."

She watched him rub his nose once with his hand before passing her the cigarette once more. his nose was a little flushed. He was pretty.

"Want to talk about it?"

She rubbed her nose as well, perhaps to mimic him.

"I don't think you'd enjoy a conversation about the trivial troubles of a teenage girl," she replied, chuckling gracefully under her breath as she tapped the cigarette on the arm rest.

He smiled, and his hand lingered beside hers, waiting patiently for the cigarette.

"You're resilient, Elodie. But something has shaken you." He brought the cigarette to his lips and held it between his teeth, and in a muffled voice said, "so tell me, if you'd be so inclined."

She sunk deeper into her chair and brought her feet of the ground. The things were coming up. Vigorous torrents, up her throat. They pulled on the back of her eyes, made her lips shudder ever so gently.

"Someone tried to uproot my intimacy. and then they exhibited what they saw. "

She seemed awfully calm when saying this. Perhaps the wording had embellished on the fact that she felt deracinated from the comfort of her secure mind and the power it held.

"What do you mean to say?"

At first she dismissed the feeling. The wetness that grew in the corner of her eye.

But then he looked at her. And no matter how hard she tried to bare her teeth and hold it in, they began to swell, gradually at first, the rest of her face remaining tranquil and unfazed.

Then she said it.

Rather ungracefully, but in total truth.

"A boy tried to fuck me. I didn't let him fuck me. And then he told everyone he fucked me."

At this point her lip really began to tremble, and she felt it coming on more and more, her cheeks puffing up, her eyes bulging, her eyelashes weeping.

"Oh i really shouldn't be bothering you with this girl shit," she exclaimed, raising herself from the chair briskly.

He grabbed her hand.

"sit."

She looked at his face. His eyes were dark in the shadow of his brow but they caught the specks of stars behind her. There was a rugged sincerity about him.

It made her want to stay.

And so, led by his hand, she returned to her chair.

He transferred his cigarette to his other hand and stayed clutching hers as they watched the ocean together for a moment.

"He has done nothing to you, Elodie. He can't touch you, unless you allow it. Passion is only fulfilled with the receiver's desire."

He gently rubbed his fingers down hers, burrowing his pinky into her palm.

"He hasn't even touched your beauty."

She laughed, a spluttered laugh, and cleared her tears away with her left hand.

"See, you look even more beautiful when you cry. Your eyes grow crepuscular, your cheeks tender."

He lifted the cigarette once more and sucked, before slowly, agonisingly, exhaling. They watched the sea again. He watched it excruciatingly. Her eyes relaxed.

The waves tumbled softly towards the shore, their ripples radiating a dormant greatness. They must have watched the waves for a good five minutes. Neither moved.

But then, eventually, he lifted the crumpled cigarette again, and when lodged in his mouth, ran his fingers through the length of his hair. Once satisfied with his breath, he dropped her ( now numb ) hand and lifted himself out of his chair.

"You should be off to bed."

He looked at her for a second. And then he started off.

"Goodnight, Elodie."

She didn't reply, he had turned away already. he walked briskly, hands in pockets, cigarette wedged in the left corner of his mouth, across the glistening lawn, towards the path.

He disappeared without further comment, and left her to wander back to her room.

O, how serene.