[beach life]

Lying on his back, arms behind his head, Cesare watches the clouds. Now and then his eyes drift shut. Spiaggia di velluto - what soft sand this is. His toes curl and dig, going from dry and fine to wet and coarse. Once there, his feet smoothe the patch to start and dig anew.

"Senigallia had a nice beach," he says, a propos nothing. "Softer than this even."

Miquel's outlines are faint in the sun. Cesare hasn't quite recovered yet from the shock of seeing him in a t-shirt and swishy grey skater shorts, the sort of tawdry thing they sell on the High Street. Not that you ever bathed there, Miquel laughs, drawing invisible shapes in the sand.

"Vero." He props himself on one elbow. "Care to go for a swim?"

You're silly. It sounds gentle. As if he didn't want to point out the glaringly obvious. Go ahead, he adds. I'll enjoy watching you.