Two eyes, just above the water.

That was all. The rest of him was under, still.

I noticed them because they were staring at me.

Returning the gaze, I remember thinking: what a pretty girl.

The eyes, the dark curls floating around them, the suggestion of a face just below the line.

Then he stood up. Ripped.

I had the ashes in my backpack.

I carried them around Benidorm through all of August — photographs exist, the leather backpack, the heat.

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I.Ph.

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