“You can’t wish it away.”
“I’m not wishing for anything. I’m just trying to—”
It was a futile endeavor to revisit places where joy once lingered, as if the location could somehow restore happiness. Yet, she pondered, this yearning to return—maybe it’s just another form of faith, something she felt unworthy of. Still, here she was, pretending. Pretending was her only escape from the haunting memories. So, they walked on. When expectations of change fall flat and you revert to your original self, what’s left but to keep up the façade?
“The beach?” he suggested. “What about that little beach with the broken chairs?”
“Yes.”
They strolled in silence for three blocks until they reached the water, relieved to find the chairs no longer there. Settling on the grass, he began to discuss real estate, lamenting how everything ultimately boils down to property values. “They’ll ruin this place too,” he declared passionately. His anger towards the wealthy felt sincere, a stark contrast to his endless pursuit of money that always slipped away from him. He embraced this contradiction, and she admired him for his unabashed hypocrisy. The idea of despising what you desire felt completely natural to her. Now, he was attributing the missing chairs to the affluent, always meddling with things that were perfectly fine, and in doing so, ruining them. For her part, she remained silent—she wasn’t really listening. The absence of the chairs marked a shift between past and present, and she appreciated that at least the chairs had respected the moment by vanishing, whether due to the rich or not.
“It’d be nice to break some new chairs and leave them here,” he mused.
Gazing at the water, she noticed the sailboats bobbing gently and a peculiar floating structure that resembled a doghouse. That, at least, was still there. She almost pointed it out, but something held her back—acknowledging it might make it disappear or alter its appearance. A weathered boat with a shingled roof, anchored among the sailboats. It seemed illogical to feel gratitude for the absence of the chairs while simultaneously finding comfort in the doghouse boat’s presence. But such is life. There was still time. The odds weren’t overwhelmingly against them yet, so surely, there was still time. This kind of thing happens all the time. It had even happened to her once in her mid-thirties, and she had felt relieved, devoid of any grief. Grief, she mused, is situational—just like everything else. She could almost hear him saying, “Location, location, location,” but now he was shifting gears, contemplating where they should dine. Part of her wanted him to notice the doghouse boat, while another part wished he wouldn’t. Was this her dilemma? A perpetual conflict of wants? Yes, time remained, but can’t one mourn what could have been, what this moment wasn’t? Optimism felt brutally unfair. The damp grass soaked through her sundress. Later, at the quaint hotel beside the yacht club, they would undress, and the act of intimacy would be a much-needed distraction. She had always found hotel encounters liberating—no concern for the sheets. She always tipped generously. Now, it also provided her a chance to express her frustration with him—yes, his incessant chatter, but also at a higher power she hadn’t given much thought to until now. Now, the notion of a watchful deity made a strange kind of sense. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. He seems indecisive too. This empty vessel of hers.
Later, she’d definitely moan loud enough to startle the innkeepers.
“You’re not in the mood for fish?” he asked. “Why not? Last time—” The boats swayed gently, while the land cradled the bay like a crooked arm.