Naked Behind the Sunscreen Bottle

“You can put that down now,” Mara said, nodding at the sunscreen bottle I was holding in front of my naked stomach. “Unless it’s structural.” I lowered it, then immediately wished I had something else to do with my hands. Getting undressed had taken about ten seconds after thirty minutes of hesitation. Being noticed by the woman on the next towel was apparently going to require a separate adjustment period.

“I’m usually much better at standing,” I told her. Mara closed her paperback around one finger. She was naked too, entirely at ease, and smiling as though we were already sharing a joke. “You were excellent at moving that towel,” she said. “Very thorough.” So she had noticed. Every little shuffle, every inspection of the sand, every unnecessary application of factor fifty. I looked down at the bottle. “I was hoping that part had gone unobserved.”

I had arrived determined to try naturism, then spent half an hour finding reasons not to start. Around us, adults read, chatted, and wandered toward the water without the slightest interest in my preparations. I had straightened my towel three times and protected my elbows so diligently they could probably have survived a week outside. Mara’s first comment had finally made me laugh enough to take my clothes off. Unfortunately, I hadn’t planned what came after that.

“First time?” she asked. “Is it the calm, experienced manner that gives me away?” She laughed and shifted sideways on her towel, leaving the conversation open without beckoning me closer. I liked that. I also liked her smile, which complicated things. A moment earlier, my worry had been that someone might look at me. Now I was trying to work out whether I wanted this particular woman to look again. I put a hand on my hip, felt absurdly formal, and took it off. Mara politely pretended not to notice.

“I’m going for a swim,” I announced, with rather more authority than a swim required. “Excellent,” she said. “I’ll come, if you’d like company.” I said yes too quickly, then crouched to put the sunscreen away. My slippery fingers squeezed the bottle against my knee. A white stripe shot across my towel. We both stared at it. “That patch was dangerously exposed,” Mara said. I laughed so abruptly that I had to sit down, naked in the sand, still gripping the offending bottle.

She passed me a tissue from her bag, and we cleaned up my expensive little spill. Kneeling opposite her, I stopped worrying about arranging myself and started worrying about getting sunscreen on her paperback. When I handed the tissues back, our fingers briefly touched. Nothing dramatic happened; I simply became very conscious of how close she was. “There,” she said. “Ready?” This time I left the bottle behind. We walked toward the shallows together, and I resisted the urge to fold my arms across myself.

At the waterline, a small wave washed cold around our ankles. I made a noise I would rather not describe, and Mara looked delighted. “Still coming in?” “Absolutely. I’ve made several public commitments.” She offered her hand for the uneven sand beneath the water. I took it, and we waded until the next wave made us both gasp. Looking back, I could see my abandoned clothes beside the towel. They seemed surprisingly far away. Mara was still holding my hand, loosely enough that I could have let go. I didn’t.

We stayed in long enough for the cold to become pleasant, talking about her book and my spectacular inability to begin a relaxing afternoon. On the walk back, I found myself matching her unhurried pace instead of rushing for cover. At my towel, she asked whether I wanted to sit with her for a while. I picked up the sunscreen, caught her expression, and held it out. “Only if you promise not to time me.” Mara spread her towel a little wider. “I’ve got all afternoon.”