“You can’t just talk it away,” he said.
“I’m not trying to talk anything away. I’m just… existing, trying to—”
It was a futile effort, attempting to return to places where happiness once thrived, as if the location held any real significance. Yet, she mused, it was all we had—this notion of returning, which felt like a synonym for faith, something she believed she had lost the right to possess. Still, here she was, putting on a façade. Pretending was her only defense against the haunting memories. When expectations of transformation failed, and the familiar self emerged again, what else could one do but fake it?
“The beach?” he suggested. “What about that little beach with the broken chairs?”
“Yes,” she replied.
And so, they strolled in silence for three blocks until they reached the water. She felt a wave of relief upon discovering the chairs were gone. They settled on the grass while he rambled on about real estate. It always came down to that, he said. They would ruin this place too. His passionate rants against the wealthy—those looters!—were as genuine as his yearning for the money that always eluded him. He didn’t hide the contradiction, and she admired him for it. The idea of despising what you desired felt entirely natural to her. Now, he was lamenting the absence of the chairs, blaming the affluent for their incessant need to improve what didn’t need fixing, thus ruining everything in their path.
For her part, she didn’t respond—she wasn’t really listening. The loss of the chairs marked a change from her last visit, and she felt a sense of gratitude for their absence, whether removed by the greedy or not.
“It’d be nice to break some new chairs and leave them here,” he mused.
She gazed at the water, the bobbing sailboats, and the floating structure that resembled a doghouse. At least that was still there. She almost pointed it out but hesitated, fearing that acknowledging it might somehow make it disappear or change in some way. An old boat with a little shingled roof was moored in the bay alongside the sailboats. It didn’t make sense—she was thankful the chairs were gone, yet relieved that the boat was still there. But that was how it was. There was still time, despite the odds being against them, and she clung to that thought. This type of thing occurred every hour of every day. Once, in her mid-thirties, she had felt a similar relief—no grief whatsoever. Grief, she decided, was situational, just like everything else. She could almost hear him saying “location, location, location,” except now he had moved on to choosing dinner. She half hoped he’d notice the doghouse boat on his own, half wished he wouldn’t. Was this her problem? A chronic conflict of desires? Yes, there’s still time—but can one not mourn what could have been? There was something so merciless about optimism.
The damp grass soaked through her sundress. Later, at the quaint hotel next to the yacht club, they would undress, and physical intimacy would serve as a welcome distraction. She had always appreciated hotel encounters—who cared about the sheets? She always left a generous tip on the nightstand. Now, it also afforded her an opportunity to express her frustration at him—yes, at his relentless chatter, a constant, futile stream of words—but also at God, an idea she hadn’t pondered much until now. She was practically convinced there was a great eye in the sky watching every move. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind either. This empty vessel.
Later, she would moan loud enough to startle the innkeepers.
“You’re not in the mood for fish?” he asked. “Why not? Last time—” The boats bobbed while the land sheltered the bay like a crooked arm.