(this is annie)


on the beach

It's five am on a Saturday morning when, after three hours of talking on the telephone, my boyfriend's battery is about to die. I already know that I can't sleep, and I feel restless, so I say, "Do you want to go to the beach?" I figure that nobody will be at the beach at five in the morning, and we can finish this ridiculous argument, and then keep each other warm as we watch the sunrise. He says yes, and I pull on my Wranglers and a thrifted polo shirt before heading out the door. There's a man peeing in the alley, and I'm about to yell at him—hey, this isn't where you pee, mister—but then I think that he might whip around mid-stream, and then man-pee and horror will soak in. So I just scamper past his double-parked SUV and hop into my car. I listen to Yaphet Kotto until I get to my boyfriend's house, when I replace it with Moss Icon. I can't listen to anything but loud guitars, because I'm driving and can't cry. And he doesn't really like abrasive songs, anyway.

When he gets in the car, he looks young and uncertain. "How are you?" I ask out of habit, and then I feel like a jerk because it's not like all of this fighting makes you feel anything other than worn out and heavy. We drive down North Avenue, and for a minute it feels like we're just going on an early-morning date, and everything we've discussed over the last few hours was a bad dream. It really feels that way, like I've just woken up and I need to tell him about this terrible dream before he reassures me that it's just another one of my anxious dreams and that of course he loves me, how could I ever be so silly to think anything else?

I miss the turn on Clark Street, but I figure we can't be that far from the lakefront, so we just park on North Avenue and walk east. The beach is farther than I thought, and too late I remember that his ankle is sprained. I feel terrible, but he says he's fine, so we keep walking. The sky is bright baby blue, as though it's being lit from behind with a 120-watt lightbulb in a 60-watt sun. The sun is starting to rise over the lake, and when we finally sit on a beachside bench, I feel like I can actually see it moving.

There are more people on the beach than you'd expect, mosquitoes are circling our heads, and a tractor is raking the sand. I'm cold and hurt and insecure. I pitch sentences at him, alternating between angry questions and accusatory statements. He stares anywhere but at me and says very little. The less he says, the more questions I have. So I start answering them myself, waiting for him to interrupt me and tell me that I have it all wrong. But he remains mostly silent, and I sand away our relationship until there's really nothing left. We talk until nine in the morning, when I finally drive him home. "Talk soon," he says. "Okay," I say. That night, after I've teared up at a birthday party while he is watching a movie with a group of friends, I will delete his never-memorized number from my phone so that I can't call to try to build things back up.

0 Responses to “on the beach”

Post a Comment




© 2009 avt

custom counter