The humidity from the sun-stroked tarmac lingers throughout the night, maintained by a mushroom cloud of body heat. The strip is nothing but noise. Daft Punk’s Get Lucky, Burna Boy’s Last Last, and Billie Eilish’s Bad Guy bellow from three neighbouring bars who have no need to compete this time of year, yet fight for dominance over the party people’s ears, simultaneously fighting to be heard over their ever-rambling mouths. It all stirs into one deranged song, so loud, so intense the island vibrates, sound waves at risk of shattering the atmosphere. No one listens. Not to the songs, not to each other. Not really. The cacophony is an unintelligible cocktail they are too drunk on to taste. They are the orchestra without an audience to appreciate the melody, except for Her. But she cannot relate to the lyrics. They are in another language, alien to her, whether or not she wants to sing along.

She’s dressed to blend in: the widest, most tinted aviators she could find, low-heeled sandals, light-patterned harem pants and a cropped, turquoise hoodie. Not too little, not too much -– her trapeze act of not standing out in a crowd of people who want to stand out from the crowd, peacocking their ability to showcase fashionable clothes whilst wearing as little as possible. She swims through the sea of nakedness -– through saturated skin, skimpy rags, open grins, fuddled laughs, potent breath and lots and lots of drinks -– as all the while, under her hood, the voices swim around her head.

Some whisper misgivings and doubts, unsettled by the never settling environment where each summer seems just the tiniest bit bigger, louder, and crazier than the last, whereas the others sing, elated by the potent scene. That slightest of measurable escalation meant Rhodes never grew monotonous for them, nor was it ever less painful that they could only ever observe -– that she could not join in. Countless summers watching countless generations living their best lives. Not looking back, not looking forward. Living right there, in that moment, and living it to the fullest. She can taste it in the air: true happiness. True bliss. Apparently, that tastes like aftershave and tequila shots and all the salt in the sea, all poured into a pan greased with sweat and brought to boil. Maybe among the memories made that summer -– the ones retained -– there would be a few regrets, but she envies that, too. She doesn’t regret a thing. Nothing she has done. Nor what she is about to do.

In great circles, she wandered from the strip to the beach, around to the hotels and then back to the strip. That’s all she can do, hour after hour, night after night, until she catches a bite. Those elated voices might compel her into doing something foolish, convinced by ignorance and euphoria that she could join in, only for the worst to happen. But those voices are a few off-key notes drowned out by the rest of the chorus. Of the maelstrom she hears, she knows which ones are the voices of reason. She listens, and they keep her in the moment, right where she needs to be.

“Hey, you in the hoodie. You alright?”

And there it is, what she has been waiting to hear for weeks, for someone to talk to her. For someone to see her, but not really see her, not truly see her. He couldn’t have, or else he wouldn’t be speaking.

She hears the urges to run, to get away from him. Leave him be. He sounds boisterous. Too hot-blooded. But she doesn’t listen. They were all like that. If they weren’t drunk and dumb, they wouldn’t follow. And he follows, and he keeps hollering. She knows she needs to maintain his enthusiasm -– keep his libido on a leash. She can’t let him lose it. Can’t lose him. 

***

Drowning out the naysayers, she listens only to the voices that will keep her focused on the next step. She hits it on beat.

Taxis edge along the crossroad ahead, never fast enough to be dangerous, grinding to a halt until the crowd parts, at long last. Passing in front of one, she risks a glance over her shoulder. She sees him. Not what she expected: he’s young, skinnier than most, probably his first time abroad without mum and dad, trying his first chin stubble on for size, hair not long and greasy or short and ratty but somewhere in the apparent untrendy place between, his smile is … different. He looks at her with nervous hopefulness, not the same untamed excitement she’s used to. But he does not see her face; the headlights shroud her features. She timed it perfectly. And again – as the cab passes between them, she turns completely, steps backwards a few paces, then spins forward again, all without betraying a glimpse. She only hopes he saw enough through the cab windows to read her mannerisms, catch her drift, or at least saw what he wanted to see. If she were somebody else, she might be an exceedingly more innocent girl trying to escape his boyish advances, looking back only to see if he persists. For a moment, she fears his nerves will make him think as much. Then he calls out again:

“Sorry. I must’ve thought you were someone else.”

What can she do? She can’t turn to face him. She can’t call back to him here, surrounded by the crowd; she cannot risk turning a single head.

Let this one go, the voices say. It’s not worth the risk.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe there’s nothing she can do to keep him hooked. But she’s not prepared to give him up so easily.

She stops. She stands still, waiting. The chorus loses all composure. They should have more faith in her. Through the alarmed shrills in her ears, she hears his footsteps. As he draws in, she speaks as though it were only the two of them, up close in a silent room, looking each other dead in the eye.

“I could be …”

With a hint at a turn of the head, she skips forward with no need for any indication he’s still with her; she knows he is. Pretending he accidentally followed a stranger -– the flirtation tactic of the shy. He is a pup trying to be part of the pack, and this is likely his first time playing at their game. He wants this. She has to keep it that way.

She turns down the next alley. There are a few stragglers: a couple pressed against the wall, too engrossed in one another’s faces to notice her, and a little further, someone violently throwing up and another suspending their hair from the splash zone. She looks away as she passes lest the tentative friend glance up out of embarrassment for their patient. After that, there’s no one. No one but him. Still hanging on. Relentless.

“Where’re you going? Don’t you like me?”

Only now, away from the crowds and the noise, does she dare call out loud:

“Keep up and you might find out.”

There is no chance of him giving up now. No turning back.

He has your promise. Or so he thinks.

***

He follows, out the alley, down the next, out the other side and onto the main road along the seafront. She prances along the pavement, away from the party-driven peak of the isle, until she’s sure it’s safe to scarper across, or as sure as she can be, limited to only looking one way; he’s too close behind to look in that direction. As she crosses the road, she feels the fretful voices hold their breath, even though she has danced this jig enough times to recognise the slightest sound of an oncoming car. He cannot say the same, however. 

Once across, she peers ever so slightly around the side of her hood. Then the whole chorus holds their breath, as does she; he is crossing in the glare of an oncoming car. But it has plenty of time to slow down, pretentiously honking at the poor lost soul innocently trying to apologise whilst stumbling the rest of the way across.

She smiles. No! She strikes down the fuzzy feeling and runs on. What next? He’ll be endearing if she’s not more careful.

Have no sympathy, they remind her. This night, he may seem a harmless boy. The next, he’ll be just like the rest.

They’re right, of course. The pup would grow – had he not prowled upon her tonight.

The cheap hotels and car parks made of peeling plaster give way to scorched grass and steep, rocky slopes. As the road goes uphill, the sidewalk splits away and becomes the perfect footpath for a pleasant seaside stroll on a fateful morning-after. At this hour, however, it’s deserted. Everyone in Rhodes is far too busy doing exactly what they came for, which is back the other way. None of them imagined they would find any of that where she leads him, where there is no music but the melody of the tide. There’s not even a beach to safely swim naked. Over an insubstantial fence on her right is a steep drop to where the salt waves caress the rocks, on her left, a chalky stone wall goes up fifty feet to the road. If a car were to drive through the guard rail -– achievable at a speed rivalled by the rare Rhodes jogger -– it would fly straight over their heads and down to its watery demise without coming anywhere near them and the path. However unlikely it is for anyone to be around until the walk-of-shamers hours later, there is no guarantee of privacy, yet nowhere else to go. Or so it may appear. Nobody would look twice over the fence at the point where the cliff goes down so steep that they cannot even see it hit the sea. This is because it caves inward, forming an invisible cove right under the unsuspecting feet upon the path above. The way down is equally unobservable; a halo of prickly bushes disguises the ledge just below the fence, which continues along the rock-face, declining to the cove.

She swings down to the two-foot-wide ledge and is halfway to the cove before she presses herself against the cliff and looks back. His face peeks over the fence, confirming he’s seen where she’s gone. She glides back into view, taunting him evermore with the view of the back of her hoodie. He just needs to pass this final test before he belongs to her. Obstinate lust will spur him on, of course, but in his soberless state, can he contain himself enough to be cautious enough not to lose his footing?

Don’t leave the answer to the fates!

“There’s no rush! We’ve got all night.”

That should be enough.

And it is. He treads carefully after her, along the ledge as it descends to just above the bite of the waves and then skirts round the interior of the cove to their destination. If someone out to sea were to look towards the walled off edge of the island at night, it would be too dark to see it; during the day, when the high sun’s blaze emits off the cliffs, the cove is too shadowcast to reveal its secret; at dusk, before the last light disappears over the opposing horizon, one might make out the contours of a crack at the throat of the inlet, but there are no boats out at that time. She reaches the cave’s narrow entrance, meandering a moment just until she hears him approach, then flings herself into the shadows.

***

Inside, all is still, silent but for the suppressed sound of waves breaking outside. A ray of moonlight shines through the cleft, framing his skinny silhouette as he enters, rocking like he’s trying to keep his balance on the deck of a vessel in choppy waters. He moves into the dark space, arms outstretched, feeling his way around the maze of strangely shaped stalagmites that crowd the cave. Feeling for her. Her hands find him first.

From her hiding spot near the entrance, feet soundless on the sandy floor, she sneaks up behind him armed with a ribbon of silk. Gently, she reaches around him and rests an icy palm across his eyes and a finger against his lips with her other hand, which withdraws, swiftly returning with the blindfold. She ties it around his head, sensually, carefully, tightly, and he lets her. He thinks it’s just part of the game. Despite all limitations, her playful act has worked. He trusts her. That should make everything worse, but it doesn’t. She turns him to face her, blind to the world; blind to all but the imminent fulfilment of his desire; blind to everything but her spectral form in his mind’s eye. She settles her lips upon his. He presses back for a beautiful moment, then pulls away, innocent face pale-cast in the moonlight, smiling but aghast. This game, the one he thinks she is playing, is new to him after all. That should make it worse, but doesn’t. He speaks:

“What’s your name?”

She used to tell them her name, only for some to call her by another. Maybe that was normal when strangers became lovers. It should not have hurt. It did. So now, she says,

“You can call me anything you want.”

They lock lips again. She unties the string of her baggy trousers and lets them drop, gracefully, barely making a sound, whilst he clumsily unbuttons his shirt – she has to help. He holds her close as their lips keep working and she unbuckles his belt. She guides him to the floor, and then she lets him in.

They are just another pair of lovers in Rhodes. The crowds, the bustle, the noise all mean nothing to them. There is nothing in the world but each other. Here, they can sing their own song. Following her lead, she makes him last. Although what comes after was sometimes just as satisfying, she knows it will feel bittersweet with this one. Still, it feels like it lasts only a moment, and still it feels like the moment is worth it. That moment, that feeling, that touch she waited all year for, had to be perfect. And it was. It always was. It hits the spot. It kicks the spot. Assaults the spot. Launches the spot into orbit and hits the spot again as it comes plummeting back down. As it ends, she moans, and the voices moan with her, standing on end and pushing back her hood.

That is when he hears them.

He rips off the blindfold and sees them, all of them, their scaly, limbless bodies writhing and thrashing about her head, dozens of cold-blooded eyes looking back at him.

And he sees her, for the first time clearly. He stares at her. He keeps staring. Staring endlessly. As still as stone. Suspended in time forever. Another strange stalagmite in her lair, the details of their forms, their faces, lost forever, obscured by darkness. Neither light from sun nor moon peeps in far enough to reach them. Not that anyone ever came by that place to see them, or ever will. No one but Her. She puts her hand against his cheek, so rough it could cut her, then leaves him.

She steps out into the night. It is over, as always, all too soon. Most years, this normally signifies the start of her long, insatiable wait. Then again, it’s only July. This summer, she might score again.

[Alfie Court writes: I am a London-born, -bred, and -based writer, fairly new to prose having previously written and directed short films, one of which, Boys Don’t Cry, received several awards. I started writing prose during lockdown and have kept at it ever since, developing several short stories including but not limited to The Beasts of Bethnal Green, published in the 35th issue of Tigershark Publishing, The Old Nord, long-listed for History Through Fiction’s Annual Short Story Contest, and Dear Diary, honourable mention in the most recent issue of Allegory Ezine.]