If you could see my eyes right now, it would kill you to witness them roll in irritation. I suppress an annoyed sigh and calmly wait for you to settle. Your breath forms droplets on the skin of my neck and combines with your tears to pool in the hollow of my clavicle. Wanting this over, I bring our foreheads together, creating a space in which nothing but us exists.

‘It’s not your fault,’ I say.

‘You’re so kind,’ you whisper.

~

You walk barefoot around the camp, unconcerned about the bull ants and the broken glass. You are so much braver than me. We erect the tent together, but you refuse to let me help you make the bed. That’s your nest to create — and I’m fine with that.

Teenage boys have taken to riding their bikes right up to our end of the road. They make a show of skidding their tires and doing tricks in front of our camp. You are good to them, waving and smiling each time they appear. The boys are all whispers and long stares. I admire the way you see the world, without malice and suspicion. You are so vulnerable that part of me wants to shield you, cup you like a butterfly, giving you just enough space to stretch your wings. Another part of me wants to squash you in my fist for being so naive as to land upon my open hand.

‘Could you at least write me a poem?’ you ask, returning to our conversation from the car.

‘Sure.’

‘What will you call it?’

‘How about, “My Summer White Girl”?’

Your face lights up for a moment and then stiffens out, as you search for the meaning within the title. ‘I would prefer just, “My Girl.”’

~

After dinner you run ahead of me on the beach, laughing and doing cartwheels on the hard sand. Your skirt rides up your body, exposing your underwear for brief moments in the remaining sunlight. Campers spread out along the beach, twist their necks to see you: a brief distraction from their seaside comforts. Brand new reclining chairs with cup-holders. Iceboxes full of beer and juice boxes for the kids. Catch-buckets plastered with brand-name stickers, mostly empty. Some have tall surf-fishing rods, their lines reaching far out beyond the narrow channel where the smaller rods are cast, hoping their superior position will bring in the Big One.

You move to the water’s edge, allowing the tide to flow around you. You summon me and I hug you from behind. A warm gust deflects off the sand, making your clothes and your hair swirl wildly. You push back against me. Your flesh is firm and molds to my body. Directly across from us, a long rock wall is breaking the rollers, creating a haven for boats to access the sea.

‘Where is the Aboriginal heritage around here?’ you ask.