Pissed by Sarah Grace Logan

They’re drunk; too drunk. Sand swallows them up, their spread-eagled
limbs sinking into the warm, gritty mattress. Water laps at their toes
like the tongue of a cat. It lifts their empty bottles and drags them
over the shale.

Jake gets onto his knees, fumbling his fly. “Shit,” he mutters. “Shit.”
“Give over,” Martin says, laughing as he reaches for Jake and flips
the buttons loose. “Yer piss’ead.”

Jake fumbles it out, turns away from Martin and lets out a long sigh
of relief. “Finally,” Jake murmurs.

The wind picks up and throws sea spray at Martin’s face. His closed
eyes flicker, but it’s nice, and he’s too comfortable to wipe it away.
Jake giggles. “Sorry ‘bout that. Aimed into the wind.”