Click. Click. Click.
Aimlessly pressing the button now. Storage is cheap, but the moment when the spirit and the sea harmonize is priceless. Can't be faked. Can't be missed, if it appears at all. A thousand photos, ten thousand, might be distilled to one perfect instant, an ephemeral moment captured forever, a chance for immortality.
She parts her legs slightly on the surface of water and the sun shines through like a bolt from heaven.
Click
. They're closed again now, the conduit closed, the moment passed. Best have gotten it. Best not have missed. That could be the cover, that could've been the billboard, might've been the big break.
She's still and calm again on the surface. It's getting to be time for her breathing to slow, for her to take a deep breath, drawing in as much of the warm Hawai'ian air as she can, holding it for a heartbeat, let it out. Empty her lungs. Do it again, drawing in, letting go. Then sinking beneath the water, gently, without disturbing the surface, interrupting the process of light turning to magic.
She twists as she sinks, feet down now, face haloed in the shining copper glory of her hair, fingers of sun reaching through the water to caress her slim arms, her smooth brown back and slender neck; highlighting the yellows and oranges and subtle minty green of the flowers between her shoulders and the deep black geometrics spiraling around her thigh; and tugging the floating strings of the little red nothing concealing her vulva, the nipples on her heavy white breasts. Clicking faster, unwilling to miss anything, any of her. It's hard work sometimes, riding on the coat-tails of the angels.
Click. Click. Click.
Swimming now, approaching the camera, hair caught back by the water, the sea rushing through the valley of her cleavage, profile all breasts and firm buttocks and powerful thighs backlit by the sun; yet the camera is drawn to her pink lips drawn tight in concentration and determined green eyes burning fiercely; it can't look away. She's a creature of passion now, a manifestation of young love, a woman flowering into the fullness of her strength. And her hands aren't always visible, but when they are they pluck at the strings at her sides and hips, and the knots come apart.
She comes to a halt, flaring her body, upright now, bending back. Her angular feet press together; the bulge of her strong thigh concealing her mound from the eye of the camera; arms spread wide, hanging in the blue warmth, relaxed and free; back arched, head thrown back in extasy, orgasmic or religious, it doesn't signify which; breasts lit by the strong sun, her dark nipples standing proudly from wide areolas, light teasing them like the soft supple fingers and rough tender tongue of the lover she must have. The strong beams of the sun pull her toward the surface as she hangs for a moment, caught in a space between sand and sky, and the red scraps of fabric that had concealed her drift needlessly to the bottom, forgotten and unwanted in her apotheosis.
Click. Click. Click.
And then she's gone, kicking to the surface, floating there again amongst the clouds, breathing hard and heavy, only a woman after all. Getting ready to return to the water again, to seek that moment when the light and the sea will elevate her, however briefly, into something divine.
