a third new story ...'sun-block'

‘You should use sun-blocker’, she said.  He shrugged.  They were standing on a rooftop overlooking the suburban sprawl of the city - red brick houses, greenery, a swimming pool here and there.  ‘Don’t need to’, he said, ‘I go brown’.  She took his forearm in her hand, ‘you’ve got freckles’, she said.  He liked it when she touched him. ‘I know’, he said, and let her hold his forearm longer.  ‘But my father grew up in Malaya’, he said.  She looked at him curiously.  ‘And what difference does that make?’, she said, a note of rising triumph in her voice.  He didn’t know.  And he didn’t know why he said it.  ‘He’s half Malay’, he lied.  She grinned.  ‘You’ve never told me that before’, she said, and let go of his forearm.  ‘Haven’t I?’, he said, feigning absent mindedness, casting his eyes away from her and over the buildings.  ‘You are brown though’, she conceded, ‘browner than me, I suppose’.  An ambulance siren sounded in the middle-distance, moving away from them.  ‘Do you want another beer?’, she asked.  He turned back to face her.  She looked up at him, smiling.  ‘You’ve got something in your hair’, he said.  He reached out and plucked it from her fringe.  ‘It’s ash’, he said.  ‘I had a cigarette on the way here’, she said.  He placed his hand on her cheek and ran his fingers down and around her neck.  ‘Don’t touch my spot’, she said, half-recoiling.  ‘Your spot?’, he said.  ‘Yes’, she said, ‘I’ve got a spot’, and she turned around and hitched up the hair on her neck.  ‘Oh’, he said, ‘it’s black’.  ‘Is it?’, she said, ‘I thought it was red’.  He pressed his thumb on the spot, and then for some reason he jabbed his nail into it, as if he were lancing a boil.  ‘Owwww!’, she exclaimed, and pulled away from him sharply, wheeling about. ‘That hurt!’.  He looked deep into her brown eyes.  ‘Let me bite it’, he said.