ROMANCE AND MORE

A Late Night Rendezvous

I always loved a picnic at the beach

It all started innocently enough, I suppose. We were on a picnic date, down by the lake. I brought the basket filled with delicacies — pâté, caviar, watercress sandwiches, sweets, strawberries, and more. The basket was brimming with lovely nibblies. Nothing too heavy, but everything absolutely delicious.

He brought the bubbly. An unpretentious little Prosecco. A charming rosé, perfect for a warm summer evening. Perfect for romance. Little did I know how this dreamy night would end.

We met at the picnic pavilion on the cliff overlooking the south beach an hour before sunset. The south beach is on a point of land that juts out into the sea. The sunsets are delightful, the sun vanishing behind the buildings of the city. Even better, the sunrises over the sea are certainly spectacular, and I intended to see both that night.

He pulled out a red chequered tablecloth for us to dine on — how 1950s. I loved the thought. I set our feast out on the cloth, and we settled in to enjoy the night and the delicacies before us.

We nibble, and chatted, and nibbled some more. Some wine was drunk. We exchanged kisses while we marvelled at the glorious sunset. More wine was drunk. A wonderful evening, perfect on all counts.

He was always the gentleman, making no mistakes. No faux pas. He didn’t overstep any boundaries, allowing our intimacies to build; to be enjoyed; to be savoured as they should be.

The sunset had been spectacular, as he had promised. We sat and cuddled under the stars and the moonlight. The night was warm, with a pleasant breeze. We enjoyed each other’s presence, silently, underneath the tablecloth turned blanket. Nothing could spoil this, my first time with this man. I wouldn’t let anything spoil this.

I turned to him and in a low, husky whisper, said, “Please be gentle. You know this will be my first time.”

“It’ll be my first time doing this, too, my love. My first and my last. My eternal love.”

We moved together closely. Despite our clothes separating us, we were one. I felt his hot breath on my neck, and I was becoming more aroused than I ever thought possible.

Then we heard a crashing sound from the beach. I sat upright, half-naked.

“Relax, honey, it’s only some kids down by the beach. See, there they are, playing in the surf,” he pointed towards a shambling bunch of teenagers and young adults playing by the surf. “Hey, you kids! Find someplace else to hang out. We’re looking for some privacy.”

I started to put my summer dress back on, just in case of trouble, while he continued to ask the crowd to leave. I love a take-charge man. The crowd ignored him and waded into the water. He strode down and grabbed the leader of the hooligans; spun him around. My hero. A manly man, determined to protect me, at all costs.

As he grabbed the leader by his jacket, the group turned, in unison. With a horrid shriek, the leader pointed at my love, and they descended upon him. He struggled. He battled them all, but they outnumbered him greatly. I screamed as he fell to the ground, with them tearing at him, at his flesh. All I saw was the blood. The blood was everywhere. His blood.

I couldn’t stop screaming. This massive noise was coming from me, from my throat, and I didn’t know how to stop it.

Some of the crowd — they must be monsters or demons or something — turned to look where this hideous sound was coming from, and it was coming from me. I saw their dishevelled clothing more clearly now. I saw their rotting flesh, and could almost smell the stink from their bodies as they moved towards me. It was like roots had taken hold, and I couldn’t move. Fear had frozen me to the spot.

And they were upon me, with a speed I hadn’t expected. I twisted and turned, escaping their outstretched arms and hands. My poor love lay in a bloody, crumbled, disgusting heap, as these demons, or whatever they were, devoured him, ripping his entrails out by hand.

I sprinted away, but one caught me. Feeling a searing pain in my arm, but with almost Amazonian effort, I broke away. I dashed into the water; the waves crashed around me. I swam while they followed. But they didn’t swim. They began walking under the water, but I never saw them again. Maybe they turned back. Maybe they’ll walk all the way to America. I don’t know.

Exhausted, I trod water, hoping to see the sunrise. My sunrise. My final thought, before blackness took me, was I wish I had seen it.

Paul Mansfield is a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all. You can follow him on Twitter @pmansfield.

If you want to learn more about him, and as a jumping-off point to his writing, here is his About Me.