On the beach.
I lay on the bed and lift the predyll that makes me shadow my face. I welcome and open the book. After a while I feel that his gaze has rested on me.
I continue to read but his insistence covered by silence, it intrigues me. I lower the book and turn to him.
He diverts the lightning look before I can intercept it. This time I fix it: the lean legs, lying down in the belly, a braghetta costume that covers half his thigh, the thick and very short hair on the round head. I repeat the book and pretend to immerse myself in reading. The waves of the sea slam and foam.
Nn I am a fool and I realize that he stares at me: this time, without lowering the book, I turn my gaze towards him and he finds the courage to support him.
We fix, separated by three empty blue beds. I mention a smile but he changes expression and stares at me like he doesn't see me. Typical men, I think.
I repeat the reading but I feel his gaze on me.
The sun begins to burn my skin and covers me with a dry heat that enters the bones and seems to wide the heart, instilling me with courage.
I close the book and put it on the ground. Then I turn to him and fix him. Directly, eyes in the eyes and I realize that it is a battle you learn: I am too strong. But he is courageous, he seems as pathetic as all males full of love and respect for women, but in reality he is brave, because they are long minutes looking for me with the look.
I see him whitening while slow and determined I approach his cot. It gets flattered more and more hoping that I pass over: instead I stop, I stand him lying and I feel the fear of the impossible, of having done something wrong and not knowing what, of having started a telluric movement only with the force of thought.
I look at him and I read the thoughts that choke while he tries to domarli standing still.
I'll tell him.
– Are you going to take a bath with me?
My sudden question goes down like a scrowd, wide open unhearded chance, shakes the boredom of past hours with grandparents, eliminates fears and unconscious thoughts, realizes desires.
He gets up, he doesn't answer me and walks in front of me: sometimes you turn to see if I follow him. It's a boy, I think.
– Shall we go off? I saw you can swim.
He nodded with the head and arrived at shore jumps into the water in an unsuccessful attempt to not get wet.
– did you ask your grandparents permission?- I ask while the fresh water leaves shiny alonies on my belly and hops in drops in the navel.
He is caught in a foul, back jumping fast on the water, short breath to the idea that grandparents can say no, stay here.
The grandmother, however, nods me with her hand, and he runs towards me and we head together towards the horses, the waves that tear my costume and I laugh while I put it back in place before another wave arrives.
He is near me, he laughs and jumps, and we get away from the sight of the grandmother who has returned quietly to the deck, and we pray the sea that gives us the big waves, that we try to ride them, to wash them, to jump them, to avoid them, while those often catch us by surprise and enter our mouth while we laugh, and this makes us laugh even more. We're seven years both, but he doesn't know.
Later, in the middle of the sea, while I hold his hand and drag it to me to go to shore, he will tell me one thing: – you are so soft... –
It will become a great man this small silent child, whose mother saw and solitary disperses in the midst of two other children, one bigger and a smaller, neglecting and nourishing at the same time the emotional wealth of Simon.
It took me a seven-year-old boy to get a proper bath.
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