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 |  My first ever Writing.com journal. |
| at dinner, i had nine cups of coffee and one square of ravioli. self-medicating. if i were a drinker, those would have been shots of vodka or something. and marcus noticed, and was concerned, and behaved affectionately through the night (unrelated), and so that was good. we sat at the head of the table and entertained our guests jointly, like husband and wife; ordered for each other, shared a tiramisu, danced in the parking lot afterward. but there were nuances, like there always are, and i don't think i was any happier when it was over than i'd been when it began. broke even, ernie would say. that's okay. i didn't want to come away with anything but my sanity and a smiling, relaxed, genuinely happy marcus. and about fourteen gallons of caffeine sloshing around in my wee little body. drink up, me hearties, yo ho! it's time to go. ********** Aaron washes up on the northern shore of the island, where the seaweed forms dingy green clots along the sand. Decidedly unsexy, he thinks, turning barefoot circles under the hot sun, scanning the seascape for the blessed white seam of horizon. Sky bleeds into sea here, runny watercolor in turquoise, dotted with tiny white puffs--clouds, the crests of waves, as indistinguishable as the expanses they accent. Frustration sets in quickly. Horizon would change, possibly fix, everything; would mean the possibilities of land, of boats, of, specifically, the Laila Ann. Would undo the previous night's mistakes: at the mainland hotel, inspired by a colorful array of exotic drinks, he'd stood on the marina and watched the then-dark waves open and close upon themselves. Wondered. Smiled at the white-tuxedoed peon who'd circulated the balcony, carrying the paper that advertised a chance to "sail into the surf, blissful aboard the beautiful Laila Ann." The tour, it said, would last from eight till eleven, meaning they'd be back in time for lunch. And Aaron had been drunk, hypnotized by the waves, opportunely outfitted with a pen. Had signed his name without a second thought. Worst of all is how much he doesn't remember of the last three hours; little more, in fact, than that his that his shoes sailed away with the Laila Ann. Gray-brown sand scorches the soles of his feet as he turns from the water, surveying his surroundings. More sand. More seaweed. Thick-trunked trees with papery bark, sprouting tall from the sand a few yards back. The shoreline curves around the trees in either direction, and he finds himself choosing one, walking a wide arc. Slowly, at first. And then faster, when he hears the sound. |
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