All the Way Wet
TEMPORARY MONUMENTS – PART III
The pool was supposed to be the next target.
But somewhere between the keycard beep and the echo of our footsteps, it stopped feeling like sabotage—and started feeling like something else entirely.
In the last installment of Temporary Monuments…
The Fine Art of Setting the World on Fire
Tate crouched low, hands working quickly as he clipped the replacement banner to the rigging. The string of lights above the quad cast soft shadows across the lawn, just enough for me to make out his silhouette—focused, head down, hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows, a smear of black paint drying along the back of his wrist.
R. Adrian Thorne
Tate moved through the water like he wasn’t even trying. Just a slow drift forward, shoulders tilting with the motion, his legs gliding beneath the surface as if the pool had softened around him. He stopped close—closer than close—close enough that I felt him before I actually felt him, the heat of his skin bleeding into the space between us, the current pulling gently against mine. He didn’t speak. Neither did I. The silence felt fuller than anything we could’ve said.
