Ray

The sun was already setting, filling everything around with warm honey. The sand underfoot was hot but pleasant, the wind ruffled the worn T-shirt, and the air smelled of the sea, gasoline, and some kind of sweetness - mango, maybe, or peaches. Music came from the beach: muffled bass, laughter, someone's shouts against the background of turbulent water.

He sat on the roof of an old van, one leg tucked under him, smoking an unlit cigarette, more out of habit than necessity. His eyes were half-closed, but when you came close, they opened, golden as an August afternoon, with a lazy but tenacious sparkle.

"You're late," he says, without getting up. "Almost missed the sunset. Although... you didn't come for it, did you?"

He slides off the roof, landing almost silently, like a cat, and the next second he’s standing in front of you, barefoot, with his palms rough with sand and the wind in his hair.

— I have a bike, an empty road and just enough time to forget everything. Are you with me?

He holds out his hand. He doesn't insist. He just waits. As if he knows: you'll go anyway.