The photo sent to the group served as a warning.

Stay away from the sun.

Not in a poetic way.

Not in a “listen to your body” kind of way.

But in the kind of way a stop sign warns you to halt or accept the consequences.

And unfortunately for the pale boys, the photo was of Sam’s vacation legs—red, blistered, and gleaming, the surface tight like it had been shrink-wrapped.

His frail skin had turned into a color that didn’t exist in nature—somewhere between lobster and a flare gun.

And immediately, on a quiet Saturday morning, the group chat awakened.

“Fuck, man….”
“Jeez…”
“Dude…”

Then… a pause—the kind that suggests everyone is now looking down at their own legs, comparing.

Collectively, their eyes search for a bottle of sunscreen somewhere on the counter. Because in this group of friends, there’s always a bottle of sunscreen nearby—half-used, wholly greasy, the cap either missing or hanging on by a faded, thin plastic hinge.

Three dots appear under Sam’s name.

“Yeah… some vacation… I can’t even take a dump with my legs burning. The pants aggravate my legs when I pull them down.”

Another pause fills the void as the mental image becomes clear.

Their friend—so sunburnt he can’t shit—minutes after they all ate breakfast.

The men rub their stomachs.

Chad stares at the message and wipes his face.

He instinctively reaches for a chapstick on his desk and presses it into his lips, never breaking eye contact with the photo.

He stands.
Walks to the blinds.
Closes them carefully, peeking through the slats as if the sun might be watching.

It is.

He shakes his head and moves quickly back to his phone, starting to type.

“Fuck, man… I don’t know if me and Sheila should go on our honeymoon now.”

The texts fly in.

“What?!”
“Why?”
“No… don’t let me scare you.”

Chad shakes his head and reaches for a bottle of sunscreen lotion, applying it in the dark.

He squeezes out too much. It drops onto his pants.

“Fuck!”

Behind him, covers rustle on a bed.

“What… what’s going on?” says Sheila.

Chad swallows hard. “Nothing… nothing… go back to bed.”

Then he goes back to rubbing sunscreen into his skin and picks up his phone.

“She wants to go to the beach in Hawaii…”

He applies more sunscreen, rubbing it into his forearm with urgency now, as if it might already be too late.

The thread goes quiet.

“…yikes…”

“I… I don’t know, man…”
“…well, maybe if you swam with a shirt…”

Chad stops rubbing.

He looks down at his arm, now slick and shining like it’s been polished.

His jaw tightens.

“I can’t swim with a fucking shirt! I’m not some shirt-swimming guy. I’ll get divorced!”

No one responds right away.

Because this is bigger than sunscreen now.

Somewhere, someone else looks at their reflection—pale shoulders, faint freckles forming in a pattern they’ve never bothered to memorize—and feels a hint of doubt.

Sam sends another picture.

This time, it’s the back of his neck.

The burn creeps into his hairline, his skin tight, inflamed, and slightly damp—like it just came out of the oven. Already peeling.

“Dude…”
“Fuck, man.”

A longer pause this time.

Then Chad types:

“Dude… did you use sunscreen?”

“Of course I used sunscreen!”

“…once?”

Please like, comment, share and tell me what you think! I have a group of friends who bond over being sunburnt, and I think it’s funny.

Follow me on substack here: (3) Tonysbologna | Anthony Robert | Substack