#handspike.

THERE IS A BOTTLE IN THAT PAPER BAG, WRAPPED TIGHT AROUND THE NECK AS NAOMI HELD ONTO IT.  the blonde’s boots scuff against the play structure as she haphazardly finds a place to perch, to sit on the edge and swing her feet off of.  there was too much happening, she thought, at least in her mind.  it was always buzzing behind those bright baby blues of hers, even if she did get labelled as the dumb blonde about 90 percent of the time – agonizingly frustrating, but at what point did she stop caring and simply leaned into the trope?  the bottle lifts again, crashes into her lips, and naomi almost looses her footing, only barely catching herself as she reaches a higher level of the structure. she laughs, the noise ringing out in the dark, and she finally settles: legs off of the edge atop of a brightly colored ladder, leaning heavily on one side of the plastic arch above it.  naomi settles there, taking in the warm summer air, and lets her eyes slip shut for a moment, finding peace in silence, even if for just a moment.  and then, a noise.  she can’t quite place it, but her eyes snap open, and she’s letting her gaze swivel across the rest of the playground, at least where she can see, too comfortable to really actually look.  “is someone there?” finally, she decides to cut through the quiet, the heaviness of the warmth.  her fingers tighten around the bottle, if only just simply for some sort of comfort.

The question lands soft, but not quiet. It hangs in the air between them, like the sharp hush before a wave crashes. Francis doesn’t answer right away. They let the wind do its work—sifting through palms, lifting grit from the sidewalk, combing through the knots of late-afternoon heat clinging to the Venice beach strip. Somewhere nearby, a seagull screams like it’s been personally wronged. The horizon is pinking at the edges. Everything smells like seaweed and weed and something deep-fried. The strip itself lends to commotion on a Thursday evening. Every day and night is consequentially busy here. But Francis likes to people-watch.

They glance at Reggie, slow. Careful. Their features are cut in calm lines, a kind of sculpted stillness that’s learned how to make space without taking any. No one who looked at Francis would call them soft, not exactly—they’re lean, strong-cheekbones, a little too intense around the eyes—but there’s a steadiness to them, something that grounds. Their black curls are recently chopped in length, meeting their chin, strands escaping to stick against their temple in the heat. Their black tank hangs loose over a frame that’s quietly athletic, not showy—just someone who moves through the world like they’ve had to carry other people before.

They reach into the paper bag they’d been cradling and hand Reggie a sandwich wrapped in foil. All heavy vegetables and loaded with home-made ingredients from their small garden. They can't eat meat. It makes them sick. But they know how to make a mean sandwich.

“Wrong’s a bad word,” they say eventually, not looking at her, just watching the light move across the waves. “It puts the blame in the body. Like it was born bad.”

I sound like my brother. The thought passes. They can't be sure if it's a good or bad thing to sound like him.

They shift, shoulder bumping hers lightly as they start walking again, heading nowhere. Just further down the boardwalk where the noise thins out and the sky gets bigger.