Beach holiday

The sands were the colour of light. Sun kissed and Persian rug comfy. The sun was was a companion, a friend, a comfort. This was her home. He was escaping snow, she would give anything to see a white Christmas.
This was no love. He was like a turtle, on the beach for a moment, but only for a moment. He had more hair in one leg than she had in her whole body. And he ran ridiculously hot at night.
He did not like sleeping under a net. She countered that with a list of famous white men who had died of malaria.
He thought she was some island dream. That she existed in his bubble where the holiday was paradise. He was the happiest person she had ever met. It was why she was with him that holiday.
He made a necklace from beads and gave it to her on one of their last days. If she married him, they could go away. He said that but left alone. He did not know it then but he would remember her and the beach in the same way. Perfect, pure, unjaded. In every way that mattered, that was better than the truth.

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