A jellyfish lies washed up on the beach—dead—a little lump of squishy translucence on the sand. I almost miss it in the dim light, but it glints a little, and I squat down to get a better look. The tide’s coming in and it won’t be long before it’s washed away. Water rushes up and the foam just touches its body, the ocean’s desperate fingers reaching to snatch it back.

A foot nudges me. “What are you doing?”

I look up and Jamie’s glaring down, mouth twisted in impatience. Her sunglasses are big and plastic and pink, heart-shaped frames around dark lenses. Her legs are long and shiny in the glittering sunset, sand-blasted brown skin that leads up to rolled shorts and down to dirty, narrow feet.

I nod down at the dead jellyfish. “Look.” She huffs and whips off the cheap pink hearts, tucking one of the arms on the strip of fabric between the triangles of her bikini top. She leans down with me, hair falling forward to brush the wet sand.

I wait for her to say something, acknowledge it. “It’s a jellyfish.”

Jamie rolls her eyes. “Yeah? So what?”

My heels dig into the sand. “So it’s sad,” I say. My mouth puckers and I pretend I don’t see Jamie roll her eyes again. “It’s sad that it died and it’s sad that its little body is here all alone.”

She reaches out and before I realize what’s happening she scoops the little jellyfish up into the cup of her palm. “You don’t think it can sting me when it’s dead, do you?” Her smile broadens, grows a little wicked, and my heart jumps to my throat. “Do you think they actually taste like jelly?” Her mouth opens, wide, and I gasp as she puts her palm flat to her lips and lets the jellyfish slip onto her tongue. I can’t tell if she swallows. Her eyes grow big and she draws a quick breath. My throat closes and I stare at her mouth, at the lines of sparkling blue electricity like a halo around the ripe, pink circle of her lips.

“It doesn’t sting,” she says, her voice a whisper, rough and grainy like the sand beneath our feet. “Want to feel?”

Jamie leans closer and grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together. Her smile is a star on the smooth sky of her face, the little hooks of electricity arcing out over her mouth, sparking bold and bright in a neon cerulean. Her skin is lit up, blue light chasing away the golden shimmer of the sunset. She leans closer.

I can feel the electricity on my own skin now. There’s a sharp jab in the center of me, a jolt of something that lances through my heart. It cauterizes and I grip her hand tight—tighter—as something slots into place. When Jamie kisses me there’s no jellyfish in her mouth—but there is a sting.

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HANNAH MADONNA is a librarian and freelance writer who loves cats, forests, and telling stories. Most recently her work has appeared in Capsule Stories Summer 2019. You can find her on Twitter @hannahwritegood.