A Volkswagen bus sped along the highway, as the sun went up. At a turn-off the road became one lane, a pair of dirt lines stretching to the horizon. The orange bus continued past the tracks’ end, cruising between beach towels and sunbathers. The bus drifted like a melting ice cube, arriving with a small bump of the brakes at the ocean.
Liza went into the back before the bus stopped. She got undressed, her small shoulders visible in the rear-view mirror as Pat copped a look. Her hair hung low like a gunslinger’s belt. Freckles covered her back like a sneeze of mud, her shoulders the shape of batwings. She stood inside the skeleton of the Volkswagen, the ribs—the inside of a shark, or whale.
Pat took the key out of the ignition and took off his shoes, taking a moment to stare ocean-ward to give thanks and a quiet Hallelujah.
Like the second before a sip of expensive wine, Pat hopped between the seats into the back, unfurled the blankets Liza had covered herself with and put his face between her legs. Only his feet and her head were visible outside the blanket, giving the impression that Liza was lying with a very enthusiastic lump of sugar between her thighs. She closed her eyes as the lump moved around under the blanket. By the time they were both ready to swim, the sun had gone down.