Pink bodies in the sun, soft along their ribcages and across their chests. They rub oil all over themselves and lay motionless; surrender their skin to the sun.
Still they are pink. They will not tan.
Tan, instead, are the locals, whose skin maintains a rich brown year-round, built deep through the layers over years of being in the sun.
"Time for another beer!" The pink ones yell.
Lots of beer, but just one brand, so they booze themselves the same way day after day.
They're happy to do it.
It's holiday, after all.
The locals bring it, smiling back, in a different way.
Is there anything else?
Not right now. Cheers.
The pink ones eye the tan shoulders as they walk away.
They slather on more oil.
It is the benchmark against which they measure the success of their hours beside the pool.
And it is simultaneously the identifier of who to call at, when it comes time for another beer.
Still they are pink. They will not tan.
Tan, instead, are the locals, whose skin maintains a rich brown year-round, built deep through the layers over years of being in the sun.
"Time for another beer!" The pink ones yell.
Lots of beer, but just one brand, so they booze themselves the same way day after day.
They're happy to do it.
It's holiday, after all.
The locals bring it, smiling back, in a different way.
Is there anything else?
Not right now. Cheers.
The pink ones eye the tan shoulders as they walk away.
They slather on more oil.
It is the benchmark against which they measure the success of their hours beside the pool.
And it is simultaneously the identifier of who to call at, when it comes time for another beer.
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