The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [65]
“I see.” She stares at me, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “Listen, will you turn it off?”
“What? But it’s in sleep mode—”
“No, I want you to switch it right off. No electronics is best, but if you insist on carrying—”
I raise an eyebrow and she shakes her head in warning. I look her in the eye. “Are you sure this is necessary?”
“Yes.”
My stomach flip-flops. No electronics? That’s heavy. In fact it’s more than heavy: to compute is to be, and all that. I don’t mind going without clothes, but being without a microprocessor is truly stripping down. It’s like asking a sorcerer to surrender his magic wand, or a politician to forswear his lies. How far do I trust her? I wonder, then I remember last night, a moment of vulnerability on a balcony overlooking the sea.
“Okay.” I press and hold the power button until the phone chimes and the signal LED winks out. No electronics. “What now?”
“Follow me.” She picks up the towels, shuts the car trunk, and heads towards the beach. While I wasn’t looking she’s shed the sarong: I can’t keep my eyes from tracking the hypnotic sway of her buttocks.
The sand is fine and white and the vegetation rapidly gives way to open beach. There’s a rocky promontory ahead, and various sunbathers have set up their little patches; offshore, the sailboards are catching the breeze. The sea is a huge, warm presence, sighing as waves break across the reef offshore and subside before they reach us. Ramona stops and bends forwards, rolls her briefs down her legs, and shrugs out of her bikini top. Then she looks at me: “Aren’t you going to strip off?”
“Hey, this is public—”
There’s an impish gleam in her eyes. “Are you?” She straightens up and deliberately turns to face me. “You’re cute when you blush!”
I glance at the nearest tourists. Middle-aged spread and a clear lack of concealing fabric drives the message home. “Oh, so it’s a nudist beach.”
“Naturist, please. C’mon, Bob. People will stare if you don’t.”
Nobody taught me how to say no when a beautiful naked woman begs me to take my clothes off. I fumble my way out of my trunks and concentrate very hard on not concentrating on her very visible assets. Luckily, she’s Ramona. She’s strikingly beautiful—with or without the glamour, it doesn’t matter—but I also find her intimidating. After a minute or so I figure out I’m not about to sprout a semaphore pole in public, so I begin to relax. When in Rome, et cetera.
Ramona picks her way past the clots of slowly basting sun-seekers—I notice with displeasure a scattering of heads turning to track us—and detours around a battered hut selling ice cream and cold drinks. The beach is narrower at this end, and proportionately less populated as she veers towards the waterline. “Okay, this’ll do. Mark the spot, Bob.” She unrolls her towel and plants it on the sand. Then she holds out a waterproof baggie. “For your phone—sling it around your neck, we’re going swimming.”
“We’re going swimming?” ★★Naked?★★
She looks at me and sighs. “Yes Bob, we’re going swimming in the sea, bare-ass naked. Sometimes I despair of you . . .”
Oh boy. My head’s spinning. I bag up my phone, make sure it’s sealed, and walk into the sea until I’m up to my ankles, looking down at the surf swirling grains of sand between and over my toes. I can’t remember when I last went swimming. It’s cool but not cold. Ramona wades into the waves until she’s hip-deep then turns round and beckons to me. “What are you waiting for?”
I grit my teeth and plod forwards until the water’s over my knees. There’s an island in the distance, just a nub of trees waving slowly above a thin rind of sand. “Are you planning on wading all the way out there?”
“No, just a little farther.” She winks at me, then turns and wades out deeper. Soon those remarkable buttocks are just a pale gleam beneath the rippling waves.
I follow her in. She pitches forwards and starts swimming. Swimming isn’t something I’ve done much of lately, but it’s like riding a bicycle—you’ll remember how to do it and your muscles will make