She whispered in the pinks

Heat soaked, the rubber looked like it was melting into gloop or sweating like an egg on a paving slab.

He was eating an iced cream and colour was caught in the bristle of his whisker.

She scribbled a smile on a postcard with a few words and drew tan lines on her upper thighs. 

The towel with an insignia of a pink flamingo made marks on her underside and she turned herself, showing off an underdone rippled rear.

It looked like a plaster has been pulled off at her edges, like calamine on frankfurters rolled over and flayed.

Later as they strolled she spoke in loud English

Still talking 

He failed to listen to her pink wet mouth moving up the promenade, 

resplendent as it was, so well moisturized  amongst the dried renders crumbling in the corners of their eyes.

Fans cooled their ideas and the palms of her hands from heat stroking

Nearby construction workers stopped drilling into bellies of swimming pools and bowels of basements 

She looked out of plate glass into a window noticing people making holidays in neighbouring hotels – lined up.

Walking on, admiring menus, she stooped and picked rocks from the beach

wondering if they could see them from the lobbies and the loungers

A man with a head like a ripe peach walked in front of her 

pounding and bobbing on a pathway that peeled back and forth

She smiled, knowing there would be bruised peaches at breakfast.

It seemed nothing was as seen as the cabaret began

The sound of a sequin dress ripping its fabric carried on a light fan driven breeze from the bar

Seams were torn asunder as a mosquito bit firmly into her upper arm and the carpet was pulled out from under.