Burnings

"You didn't mention the sunburn."

"I didn't mention the what?"

"The sunburn. You didn't mention it."

"What sunburn?"

"The sunburn from the weekend. You know, with the stars and the algae and the ball and the turtle and the marshmallows and all that, you didn't mention the sunburn."

"Who got sunburnt?"

"You did."

"Oh yeah. I always get sunburnt."

"But you're really sunburnt."

"I know."

"But really, really sunburnt."

"I know. I can feel it. My face is on fire."

"You're bright red."

"I know."

"But you didn't mention it."

"If I mentioned it every time I got sunburnt, it would be a blog about the perils of having English skin in a tropical climate."

"No it wouldn't. It would be a blog about the perils of being too stupid to wear a hat and suncream."

"That too."

"When I woke you up this morning - you know, when you were lying in the sand, snoring on your little towel - I knew you were going to regret sleeping outside when everyone else went into the tent. A good three hours the sun had been up."

"A dog sniffed my face."

"So?"

"A dog sniffed my face at about 6am and I when I went back to sleep I rolled over and faced the sun instead of away from it."

"Well, you're sunburnt."

"I know."

"You should write that you're sunburnt."

"Fine. I'll write that I'm sunburnt."

"Good. And then maybe your mum can make you wear suncream too."

Stars and algae and balls and turtles and marshmallows, and apparently the most important detail of the evening was the colour it made my face go. 

Red. There you go: bright, uniform, unflinching, strangers-laughing-in-supermarkets, red. I got sunburnt. With all my focus on the stars, I forgot about the one closest to me. 

Maybe there was a little too much light after all.