Can you believe how lovely this weather has been recently? It almost seems unreal, and yet we're definitely not complaining. To celebrate the British summer, we wrote about it for instalment number three of ACCA Goes Literal.
June by Charlotte
June was sat on the window seat, nursing a coffee as she watched the soft patter of rain fall on the garden and wriggle down the window panes. She had woken early, unable to sleep as she so often did. Whether it was because of the heat, or the sun breaking through the shutters or something else, she did not know.
June liked June. The garden began to come out in full force; vegetables, flowers, bees – the natural world was brimming with abundance. People often asked her whether she was born in June, seeing as her name was June, and then were always disappointed when she said she was a January baby. The worst month of the year apparently. Naming her June in the bleak midwinter had been her mother’s idea – representing the sunshine she brought to the world when she was born, like the summer sun of June which rouses the garden to life.
The house was still. Upstairs Jamie was still sleeping, snoozing with his face smushed into the pillow and his arm thrown over her side. She had had to peel herself away from him when she woke. Sticky skin on skin, chafing as she slipped away to pad her way downstairs. June often rose early, shone her brightest around midday and by early evening she was yawning, and rubbing her eyes ready to lend herself to sleep.
Sipping her coffee, June was optimistic about the day. Summer was coming, even if it is raining. June heard a gentle tinkle, which pulled her head away from the window; their dog, Willow, came and rested his head gently on her knee. June smiled, as she smoothed the hair down on his head, and kissed him neatly on the muzzle.
“Hello, beautiful. Shall we start the day?”.
June by Anna
You used to be so fun.
We craved your arrival. You and your laid back, Californian vibes. Your name meant the end of regimented adolescence, an illusion of independence; summertime. Jasmine at my window, vines of yellow and white; an exclusive perfume for a time limited king. A banquet set up in the garden; potato salad, gazpacho and melon with cured ham. Fireworks and orchestras. Laughing cigarettes and bare feet.
You used to be so hot.
Scorching sand; an excuse to race to the water. A trail of clothing left behind. Playing rackets by the seashore; some would call it athletics, you would say: ‘Look at me, I’m fit and young’. A pint of orxata to suffocate the throats. Winners and losers all gathered round. White legs through tight shorts, transparent boobs exposed. By your side, we were bold. Pale and foolish and sexy. We felt like grownups; somehow.
You used to be tireless.
Resting wasn’t a priority. Time didn’t pause for anybody and your visit was only short; thirty days with their nights. Sleepless bodies walking into endless shifts; a good thing that partying and work happened to be one. We swaggered from serving at the beach bar, to playing volleyball in our spare time. Suncream and boys; girls, music, drinks and dance. On a day off, a trip to La Costa Brava, before July comes rushing and the guiris take the land.
You used to be so young.
Or, was it us?
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