There are pink bodies in the sun. The bodies are soft along the ribcages, round over the middles.
They rub oil all over themselves and lay motionless.
They surrender pink skin to the sun.
Hours in, still they are pink.
The bodies will not tan.
Tan, instead, are the bodies of locals, whose skin maintains a rich brown year-round.
They have spent their lives under the sun, and it shows.
“Let’s have another beer!” The pink ones yell.
Lots of beer, but just one brand, so they booze themselves the same way day after day.
They’re happy to do it.
It’s holiday, after all.
The locals bring it, smiling back, in a different way.
This is how a living is made.
The pink ones eye the tan shoulders as they walk away.
They slather on more oil.
It is the benchmark against which they measure the success of their hours beside the pool.
And it is simultaneously the identifier of who to call at, when it comes time for another beer.