Mousy Aesthete

L. wakes up in the morning feeling dizzy and disheveled, her hair in knots, eyes red from sleep. She tumbles out of bed, looks in the mirror, and sees small breasts, narrow hips, tired eyes. The air is hot and wet and she can already feel the beads of sweat forming on her underarms. L. steps into the shower and turns on the water, set to cool. She touches herself under the spray, spreading the lather over her body. Her nipples are hard, like little pebbles and she takes one in her hand, throws her head back, and sighs.

Out of the shower, L.’s hair dries quickly in the heat, forming tight curls. She feels as if she is waiting for something magical to happen, something to shake her from her tepid, useless life. She exhales slowly, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven. She feels like she is floating.

L. switches on her computer, sees that there are no new messages on her Livejournal, Myspace, Facebook. Outside the air shimmers with heat. L. looks in the mirror, looks outside. She is going to the beach.

The bus is sweaty and sweltering, full of disgruntled passengers and crying children, unsure of how to handle this abnormal humidity and heat. L. looks out the window of the bus, past the concrete buildings, to the skyline. She sees mountains on either side, so far away that they look like a mirage. Inside the bus a baby is wailing. L. wonders if she should have stayed at home.

She steps off the bus and around the corner. She thinks she sees a glimmer out of the corner of her eye, something shiny. Someone’s jewelry, or, she dares herself to think it, could it be something else? Suddenly, her flip-flops make slapping sounds against the pavement that seem to jolt her back to reality, one step at a time.

L. reaches the water. There are rows and rows of bodies lying prone on the ground. They are brown and getting browner. Their shoulders shine with lotion. Watching them, L. thinks there can hardly be room for one more person. She strips off her dress to reveal a bikini, blue, adorned with tiny silver stars, covering pale skin, at present untouched by the sun. She slides into the water. Her movements are smooth and adept, although it has been nearly a year since her last swim. She submerges herself one body part at a time. Knees, thighs, stomach, breasts, and finally head are immersed in the rolling, salty, frigid water. L. gasps as she pulls her head out of the water and begins to stroke. The water cannot be more than fifty degrees, but it feels silky against her bare skin. Her body never becomes used to the water, but slowly L. starts to feel less numb, and more alive.

The waves crash and roll, getting bigger. L. swims deeper, and deeper. The waves break over L.’s head, but she swims farther out. She can see the coast line, the tiny dots of people moving around on the shore. She looks up, and everything is blue, blue sky and blue water, there is nothing to obscure it. A wave breaks on L’s head, and suddenly she’d submersed. All she can hear is the roar of the water rushing around her, filling her ears. It’s another world down here. She can feel the current pulling her down, down, she’s going under. She closes her eyes and gives up; lets her lungs start to fill with water.



This is the first chapter of a short story I've been working on. It's also the first piece of fiction I've voluntarily written in many years. I would really appreciate feedback about the (still undeveloped) plot, but I'm also really unsure of the style of writing. It almost seems annoyingly repetetive.
My intention is for my protagonist to be rescued from the water by a mermaid. I'm feeling sort of inspired by Francesca Lia Block right now (she wrote the Weetzie Bat series, as well as many other novels for teenagers). Honest critique would be wonderful. Thanks.