The Kite School – Part 2: Calm Evening

"I would," said Marc. "Very much."

The kiss was salty and bright, and tasted of sun and sea. Ismael's hand cupped Marc's jaw, rough and warm, and Marc slid his arms around his neck, laughing against his mouth. A kite swooped overhead, bright red, and nobody looked up.

The wind dropped at sunset, as it often did, and the whole beach exhaled. The sea went from grey to molten gold. Marc and Ismael sat at a driftwood table at a beach bar with cold beers and a plate of fried fish, barefoot in the sand, watching the sky turn pink.

"I'm not very good at this part," said Ismael.

"At dinner?"

"At being on land."

"You're doing fine."

"I live in a small flat above the school," he said, a little shyly. "There is a roof, and a hammock. The view of Africa is very good at night."

"I'd like to see Africa."

"It is only a view," said Ismael. "But it is a very good one."

They climbed the stairs hand in hand. The flat was small and sunny, with surfboards on the wall and a window to the strait. On the roof terrace hung a wide striped hammock, and they lay in it together, side by side, looking at the stars. The wind had died completely. The lights of Morocco glittered across the dark water.

"Are you sure?" whispered Ismael.

"I've never been surer."

They kissed again, slowly, in the sway of the hammock, then moved inside to a wide low bed under the window. They undressed slowly, laughing at wetsuit zips and salt-crusted hair, and made love gently, unhurried, with the warm night breeze moving across their skin and the sea sighing far below.

In the morning the levante was back, hard and bright. Marc stood at the window in a borrowed T-shirt, looking down at the beach crowded with kites.

"I booked a week," he said.

"The week is over."

"I'd like to book another."

"They are very expensive," said Ismael, solemnly.

"I have a friend who gives discounts."

Ismael laughed and pulled him into a kiss. "Come. The wind is perfect."

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