Stop Staring At My Horse Beach Short

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Stop Staring At My Horse Beach Short

“You’ve been here before?” Compared to the other visitors I seem prepared for a different kind of beach trip.He must’ve completely forgotten how steep the path is that zig-zags down. Either that or he thought we wouldn’t come had we known. He thinks not knowing makes it easierThere are groups of tourists with selfie sticks who wear wide-brimmed hats and beige trousers. Couples in skimpy shorts and skimpier tops with tanned muscular legs, while I wear a dress to cover the cellulite wobbling on my upper thighs. Toby’s legs are thin. His shin bone sticks out and his thighs are covered in long shorts.

People are walking up the hill, as we walk down, with their hands on their hips, their faces red, or looking directly at the path, not game enough to look up to see how far they’ve got to go.I heard some guy made the tunnel. Chipped it out of sandstone rock for his girlfriend,” Toby says. “He asked her to marry him, once they’d gone through the tunnel to the beach.”

“Romantic.”He walks on ahead not acknowledging my comment. When we started going out, one of the first gifts he bought me was merino socks. It seemed endearing at the time. I can see he doesn’t connect the romance of the tunnel to us being here, to our relationship, he doesn’t imagine it has any bearing on us. This is no foreshadowing for a proposal. Stop Staring At My Horse Beach Short

We were sitting in the kitchen of our flat, not long after we moved in together. It was a Sunday. The sun shone on the white wooden walls. He’d made a chickpea salad and curried eggs. After we’d ate, he said he didn’t believe in marriage. He often uses statements rather than asking questions. These statements have the appearance of opening a discussion, but it manages to close it at the same time. I just looked at him. I didn’t say anything. There didn’t seem any point. It was still early days, I told myself. After Zac was born, I thought he may’ve changed his mind. Now it seems too late to even bring it up. My silence has been taken as acquiescence.

It’s hot. Not even a sea breeze. Completely still – a rare thing for the east coast. But then it’s February. Yesterday, we’d gone swimming in the tidal mud flats of the peninsula – the sea up to our waists and warm. I can’t remember the last time I felt warm in the sea. We’d thrown a Frisbee to each other and Zac had loved lunging to his side to catch it and falling in the water.

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