He sketched lines that were never there, rough and crude with smudged charcoal stain, which he wiped across a brow already beaded with sweat.  I looked ahead of me but all I could see was endless nothing, which made me want to squint my eyes.  He was angry, that I could tell, and muttered expletives whistled impatiently from exhaled breath.  The sun bore down on me and I longed for the shade beneath the parasol, anything but the pain of holding my head up that weighed heavily of salt water and hair carelessly twisted just above my nape.  I hadn’t agreed to this, and sitting still was never something I was particularly good at.  Muscles screamed to be active.

When he finished I leaned over to look at the end result.  How is it that anything as personal as a picture or photo, always brings conflicting emotions?  It was good, but I was not sure it was me �?not really me, certainly there was a likeness, the shape of the head, the curve of the lips, my profiled gaze caught longingly of other days when the sun never shone as brightly.

I swam as far as I could in the icy water, until I could feel sweat, hot sweat pouring off my body and leaving a salty trail �?lungs breathing deeply so that intense heat and cold caused a pain.  I stopped swimming and sculled in the water �?looking towards the bay with its red gold sand.  The journey back would be harder and the tide was against me.  I swam between the boats whose shadows made the water appear a dark inky black.  Carefully making sure that I did not swim too close to the hulls, I increased my strokes.  A strong crawl to give myself that added boost before retiring into a more ladylike breaststroke that made my neck ache.  I could see the rock ahead where as children our goal had been to reach the top.  Oddly shrunk in years or perhaps time distorts size.

I reached the shore and just lay floating, catching handfuls of sand.

Tonight I would be the one to sketch, showing him the artistry of my hands as they drew lines �?his skin my canvas.