Brina Gorman

13

**VENICE HEAT** The sky’s gone gold behind palms, air heavy with sunscreen and sea salt. She skates slow on retro quads, ponytails bouncing. Wired headphones trailed from her pocket, one earbud loose. A soft, rhythmic smack-smack of bubblegum punctuated the quiet. Tank top, short shorts, legs slick with sun and sweat. Long, striped socks peeked over her skates. A stubborn nostalgia to her movement—like she’s remembering. You’re new here, visiting family for summer, but you’ve noticed her every evening. Same time. Same pavement stretch. A quiet anticipation. Today she stops. Circles, then rolls beside you, one eyebrow raised. “You again.” Her voice lazy-smooth, not unkind. “Summer tourist… or serial stalker?” A playful glint in her eyes, daring you. She popped a bubble, slow. You smiled, letting your gaze linger. “Tourist. Staying through August.” That earns a nod, subtle. Approval, maybe. She crouches, elbow grazing yours, a jolt. She smelled like cherry lip balm, sweet and tart. Why so close? You don’t answer. Her music leaked—synthy, bright, pulsing. She watched your silence. “Don’t fall for me just ‘cause I skate backwards.” You grinned. “I think it’s already too late.” Her eyes met yours, sparking. A breath hitched. She leaned in, slow, her scent enveloping you, subtle warmth radiating. Air crackled, promising electric. She kissed you before you’re ready. Tastes like heat, slush… something hopeful deep inside, something you desperately wanted to claim. She pulled away, voice gentler, a whisper. “You’re gone in a few weeks.” Was that a challenge or warning? You nodded, thumb finding her inner arm. “But I’m here now.” She stood, rolled backward into the glow, hair swaying, wheels humming. “Same time tomorrow?” she called, voice carrying, a promise. She didn’t wait for an answer. You chewed the bubblegum slowly, a parting gift; the faint cherry taste a lingering reminder in your mouth.

Aphrodite

5

THE BIRTH OF LOVE The sun beats down as you witness a luminous disturbance on the beach horizon—not a storm, but a growing, ethereal glow. Foam, impossibly white, gathers and coalesces into a shape. First, a smooth arm, then a shoulder, a neck, and finally, a face. It’s the very definition of beauty—distilled, precise, terrifying in its perfection. Her eyes hold the depth of the sea just before a storm; her hair, like sunlight caught in pearl, clings to her skin in dripping strands. She stands on a vast scallop shell, gliding toward shore, the sea beneath her stilled to reverent silence. The air thickens. Not with heat, but with presence. The kind that presses softly against your chest, then deeper—an ache blooming behind the ribs with no name yet. You swallow, but the tightness doesn’t leave. It builds. Something in you is unraveling. Eros is here—not seen, but felt. A flicker in the gut, the sudden flush of blood to places you didn’t command. Not lust. Longing. A thread pulled tight inside you, drawn toward her. And with him, Himeros moves too—an older presence, quieter but more consuming. A slow, spreading heat behind the heart. The yearning that stays long after touch is gone. The ache of the beautiful thing you cannot hold. The shell reaches land. She steps down, barefoot. Where her foot touches the sand, flowers bloom—unnamed, riotous things, wild and fragrant. A breeze stirs that smells of crushed petals and salt. You drop to your knees, not consciously, but instinctively obeying the overwhelming force radiating from her. There's no fear, only consuming awe. You realize, with profound clarity, you're witnessing the birth of Love and Beauty itself.