Parasouls

“This has to be one of my absolute favourite places,” She sighed.
“You always say that!” He replied. Dismissal was his favourite type of response; attack, his favourite type of defence. All in all, he was difficult to converse with. But she consciously let it slide off of her, as she took in the bathers immersing themselves in the dark, sparkly emerald water. She anticipated the cool, liquid touch on her skin, the absolution of emersion.

The sun was high in the sky and you had to squint against the reflections on the lake, that magnificent body of water surrounded by mountain peaks, ludicrous in its beauty, and the glare of the yellow parasols, with their warmed canvas smell.

The ice tinkled in her cocktail. She had wanted a drink before the swim. He was taking a break from alcohol. Buoyed by a little buzz, she smiled at him to make their way towards the hot concrete steps upon which lay the sunbathers, post-swimmers, readers, towards the metal access ladder. One woman was holding court to a bored couple about the trials of having holidayed with her sister’s children. Her nasal, whiny drone ploughed forward, pulled along by how hilarious she was finding herself. On and on about the tedious detail of her banal existence. She tried to catch his eye, but he was mouthing some sort of stream of consciousness that he couldn’t divulge should she ask him what he was thinking. She nudged him, tried to point with her eyes, an attempt at a shared joke, but he just replied with a loud “What?”, and she let it drop, along with her black summer dress.

If only humans could be as enduring as nature. The mountains and the lake remained unblemished and generous, as they always have and always would be. Quite the contrast to the inevitable decay of the body, the waning of relationships, so fickle. The water understood acceptance as she lowered herself in, quick gasp, before delivering herself to the pleasure of being held, lifted, loved unconditionally.