The beach was off-limits.

I walked around Busan and drank two lattes at a cafe until my eyes were bulging. I looked at buildings and gardens trying to imagine living in my dream home with my dream boyfriend. I stare into cars to see what people leave behind inviting break-ins. I buy black flip flops as if there's a reason to, and then beaded bracelets made by children who sit on the street with a crayoned For Sale sign. I end up on a swing in the playground for so long that the local mothers must be convinced I'm a victim of arrested development.

° ° ° ° ° ° 

If Irene think it's odd that I haven't gone near the water, she doesn't say. But one week goes by and another begins and hello, why am I punishing myself?

Girl with closed eyes who almost landed on a sea urchin sentences herself to beach ban and total boredom.

Head check. He was the one who wrenched me off the ground. Was I supposed to know what he was doing? I mean a sea urchin? That has to be rare. How do I know he didn't plant it there, like boys in school think it's amusing to wait until girls go to the bathroom and then leave dead bugs on their seats to gross them out. Maybe he enjoys freaking girls out, or some sick need to play savior, like firemen who start fires.

Whatever. It was time to move on. By now he had to have forgotten the whole thing - and me. Girls probably did stupid things around him all the time to turn his head.

So I go.

Blanket, sketchbook, pencils, sunscreen, and lip gloss, all in a backpack slung over my shoulder. Overcast sky, no blinding brightness. Easier to work. There are fewer people than usual on the beach and I stand my ground.

Then I look up.

The lifeguard chair is empty, so maybe it's his day off. Whoever has taken his place must be off somewhere. I'm relieved, I can't help it. I settle in the swimming area, far to the side of his chair, spreading out Irene's pink blanket. I prop my sketchbook against my bent legs and start sketching. The whole beach is my figure modeling class and I'm obsessed with drawing all the different poses. Bent legs, half-buried feet. Arms shielding eyes. I fill page after page. What I want is to draw figures that breathe - that look alive, like they could get off the page and move - not flat, lifeless drawings. The quickest way to judge how good an artist is to look at his figures.

Only what I hate is when you work harder and harder on something, and the more you try, the worse it comes out. I see now that what I've done is total and complete junk. One by one I rip out the pages and crumple them up, hiding the evidence in my bag.

I need a break. Sweat is prickling my underarms so I get up and head for the water. Then I turn back and cover my arms and legs with sunscreen.

Thunderstorms are predicted later in the day so the water's rougher than usual. The waves crashed against me, the trespasser, trying to push me out of the water, but I stand my ground easing in. I go in waist-high at first, then deeper, just past where the waves break. I bob up and down as I relax. You can do it, I tell myself.

I start to make my way back to shore, by my arms ache. I lie back letting the water carry me.

Flashback to summers with my parents on the beach, one on either side of me, holding my hands. They'd pull me up when the waves came, airlifting me from harm. I miss that. I miss them. Will I ever get over this? Now all I have is a voice in my head that warns me to go back. NO mother, only Mother Nature, and what does she care?

A whistle blows. It blows again harder and longer. Someone is farther out than I am. The warning is for him. Hands motion for him to come back in. Instinctively I swim toward shore too, taking deep breaths and swimming parallel to surf until I'm in shallow water. I run back to the blanket. As I lean over to pick up my towel, I look up.

My eyes are drawn to the lifeguard station like the tides to the pull of the moon.

And there he is.

Male in focus.

Perfect as a retouched photo, only there's nothing about him that needs to be airbrushed or altered in any way. Nothing to erase, hide or even improve on, no matter how gifted the artist. He's flawless.

He rests back easily against the chair, one leg bent for support. Within arm's reach is a surfboard, a rescue buoy, and a first-side kit.

Ready to save a life.

What would it feel like to be pulled in by him? To be tethered to him by his rescue buoy, or next to him on the surfboard? S-O-S, I want to yell. A smile rises on my face. Good thing he can't hear my thoughts.

I watch him watch the beach through binoculars, a baseball cap shades his face. A black leather cuff is wrapped around his wrist. He's ripped, yet as lean as a long-distance runner. I want to draw him, I want to get him down on paper to study, to know. I look around, surprised that eyes are closed. Are they all blind?

He lowers the binoculars for a few seconds to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand and I study his face forward, struck again with how fiercely beautiful he is. The straight, narrow nose, the finely angled bone structure. An artist's model of perfect proportions. He looks worried, self-absorbed. I try to imagine how his face would changed if he laughed, or at least smiled. I don't imagine that comes easy to him.

Do you see me studying you?

As if in answer, he lifts his binoculars and looks through them in my direction. There's no one in his line of sight.

I don't care anymore about being embarrassed.

I don't care what happened before.

I stare and keep staring, not drawing as much as a breath as the world stops and time seems to slow and everyone and everything subsides into absolute nothingness.

Except us, taking each other in.

Neither of us moves.

Sweat beads on my face and upper lip in the fiery heat. A droplet breaks free and trickles down the side of my face, stinging the corner of my eye. I blink, ignoring it.

I won't look away first. My heart beats so hard that it hurts.

He doesn't move.

I lift my chin and wait.

So does he.

I hold my ground. A silent challenge.

I'm going to win.

He turns sharply, sweeping his glance over the rest of the beach.

And the game is over.

For now.

I release a breath I wasn't aware I was holding and turn away, sinking onto the soft blanket facing the water, the sun burning my back.

I lecture myself as I cool down.

Push emotion aside, Suzy. Go for cold logic and clear reason. He's a isolated bunny with a monstrous ego. Anyone can see it in the way he carries himself, in the way his eyes X-rayed my head, my heart. Poseidon, Greek god of the sea, shaker of the earth, drawing women with his power and allure.

Welcome to my fantasy.

It's childish to play games, I decide right then. I want nothing more to do with him. Why would I sign for a summer of hero-worship and disappointment?

I'd have to be crazy.