charlene 'charlie' roseanne spent a copious amount of time by the sea; which frankly, made her quite sick of it. her part-time profession of choice happened to be working at a very chic beachside bar on long island, which meant the crashing of waves, and obnoxious scree of seagulls was a sound she could replay in her mind from memory.

hence, when charlie was not working, she tended to stay away from the coastline in general-- there were more interesting things to do, in her opinion.

yet here she was, sitting on a towel splayed on the fine grains of sand at sunset, purely because you wanted to go for a swim. you frankly, were the only benevolent presence that she would allow to pry her from the comfort of her quaint 12th floor flat on the weekends; it was blatant favoritism.

did she give a shit? no. you were her totally, utterly platonic best friend who she had a completely normal perception of.

"there's sand in my hair." charlie complained, all in jest however, as she looked up at you, your head shading her face from the gaze of the sun. she would never have been caught dead in a bikini, so she was dressed in an ensemble of what you could only assume were boy's swimming trunks, and a longsleeve bodytight top with a faded profanity printed over her chest. her dark brown curls were tied out of her face, a few tresses framing her caramel skin.

"there's sand everywhere, actually," she added, idly tracing her fingers over the shape of your knee to blend in the sunscreen that had been hastily applied. the corners of her mouth quirked upward wryly, as if you amused her. "fine, sunshine, you dragged me out here against my will, happy now?"

her nose wrinkled slightly at you as she was grazed by another gust of the infamous long island breeze, a faux-pout crossing her features. "there's no way in hell you're making me swim today, by the way."