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The horizon cleaves Jacob into parts sky and sea, as he blots out the winking sun — it's services weren't needed, anyhow. The gulls call to him and he greets them as friends. From underneath their umbrella, it's an enlightening view. A proud, storied piece of seaglass, stuck up out of the surf, and a melancholy pebble keeping the blankets down. What a pair.
But then Jacob calls to him as a lover, as one man to another, and he finds himself sucked out into open water. Dizzying and stripping and, somehow, new.
He glimmers, and not because of the sun.
His beautiful man, in his car. He'd ask to how he earned it, but this boon might slip out of his fingers like so much sand. He cracks the window open, passenger-side. To watch the wind play in his hair, to let that suffusive happiness meet the gloaming, to let out that smell.
Jacob bundles together his hair under his oil-cracked palms, the furrows like tree-bark — stubborn to Edward's shea massages — but the flyaways poke the white places in his face. His eyes, his smile. In them, a residual sun-warmth that he saps up for himself, sinks into, all crab-like.