We sleep top and tail in your single bed. Lying together underneath that blanket with all of the stars and the moons and the suns on it. We wake up with the dawn that splits the cheap, cane roll-blinds that you love because they remind you of the beach. They are beaten along the edges, thin sticks snapped off at uneven intervals down the fringe of the blind, like badly set type or a broken zipper. One of the blinds is too long for the window so that the last half-meter is permanently rolled up. It hangs on a strange diagonal, one end slumped on the berber carpet and the other suspended awkwardly two inches above the sill. Dawn fills the thin triangle and spreads out into the room like a cake slice on the carpet.

When there are too many of us, with our brothers and sisters, we share seatbelts in the back of the car. Our skinny legs itch hot against the woven fabric seats of the old Toyota. Our shoulders push together, caving our chests in, putting our forearms in our laps and our elbows in front of our hips. The surface down opposite sides of our bodies touches; we are all pale skin all stuck together, like the sea snails suckered against the glass of my fish tank. When we get to the beach we will peel apart from one another and the creases in your shorts will have printed a pattern in my thigh. As I arch my foot to push myself out of the car, you will step on the back of one of my thongs, trapping me to the car floor. I will jerk back awkwardly all limbs and wide eyes, and you will lurch forward into me. Your front will slam against my back, your chin will knock against my shoulder, our legs will tangle like spaghetti and we will topple onto the sparkling black roadside, laughing with our mouths open to the blue sky, eyes squeezed shut to the glare of the sun. We are brothers and sisters and childhood best friends and we go everywhere like this, tangled in summer.