Florence in June 1. Florence in June Swimming pool colours: turquoise, azure, iridium. The shadows of ripples on the tiles, all tiger-band and giraffe-skin, their patterns gelling and rescinding in perpetual slow motion. Florence floats, sun in her face. Her eyes are shut, spangled with lash-drops. The light still feeds into her, creeping through her lids, entering into her mind in blooms of magenta. Oh, she thinks, you pretty world. The lilo bobs: it starts to move. Florence shades her eyes and peers along her length with the hauteur of a popstar. Terence is towing her in. He frog-squats at the poolside, inscrutable in sunglasses. He lays a hand on her. ‘You’re hot,’ he says, and Florence flexes. ‘Sizzling,’ she murmurs. ‘Take care, baby. You don’t want to burn.’ ‘I might,’ she says. ‘You don’t know. I might want to try everything once, anything, even burning.’ ‘You’re nuts,’ Terence says. Florence reaches for his sunglasses. ‘Take them off.’ ‘What for?’ ‘I want to see your eyes.’ They have crow’s-feet, Terence’s eyes.
