Lungs sputter, barter water for air.
Pupils cringe at their re-introduction to morning sun.
The swimming instructor watches my struggles, tinted in the orange-dawn glow. When I gasp back onto soft sand, he picks away at my body with his words. The weak bend of my joints. The shallow shelf of my breath. His arms stroke skyward to demonstrate how his swimming prowess overshadows mine.
His body will wash up three days later, spine bent, a breached reminder that finless, warm-boned curiosities are no match for the underneathness of unsettled sea.
Jenny Wong is a writer, traveler, and occasional business analyst. Lately, her writings have been more about indoor things, but she still dreams about evening wanderings around Tokyo alleys, Singapore hawker centres, and Parisian cemeteries. Recent publications include Truffle Magazine, Second Chance Lit, and Flash Frog. She resides in the foothills of Alberta, Canada and tweets (@jenwithwords).