“You can’t just talk everything away.”
“I’m not trying to talk it away. I’m merely existing, attempting to—”
It’s a futile endeavor to return to places where happiness once flourished, as if those locations hold any real significance. Yet, she pondered, it’s all we cling to—this notion of returning, which could easily become another form of faith. But faith was something she felt she no longer deserved. And still, here she was, putting on a facade. Pretending was the only way to keep the unwelcome memories at bay. So there they were together. When expectations of significant change fizzle out, and you revert to your old self, what other choice is left but to pretend?
“What about the beach?” he asked. “You know, the one with those broken chairs?”
“Yes.”
And they strolled, silent, the three blocks to the water, feeling relieved to discover the chairs had vanished. They settled on the grass, and he rambled about real estate again. How it always circles back to that. He lamented how this place would be spoiled too. He had a knack for raving about the wealthy—the looters!—and his anger was as sincere as his yearning for the money that always seemed to elude him, despite his best efforts. He didn’t hide the irony, and she admired him for his unabashed hypocrisy. Resentment for what you desire felt utterly normal to her. Now he was attributing the chairs’ disappearance to the wealthy, always meddling with things that didn’t need fixing, thereby ruining everything they touched. Yet she remained silent, not truly listening; the absence of the chairs marked a stark contrast from before, and she was thankful that they at least had the decency to disappear, regardless of the rich’s involvement.
“Wouldn’t it be fun to break some new chairs and leave them here?”
She gazed at the water, at the bobbing sailboats, and at the thing that resembled a floating doghouse. At least that was still around. She almost pointed it out but stopped herself, fearing that acknowledging it might cause it to disappear or change. An old boat with a shingled roof was moored in the bay among the sailboats. She felt a strange mix of gratitude for the chairs being gone while also feeling comforted that the doghouse boat remained. But there it was. Surely, there was still time. The odds were not in their favor now, but not overwhelmingly so. So, yes, there was still time. This kind of realization happens every hour of every day. It had happened once before in her mid-thirties, and she had felt a wave of relief then. No grief whatsoever. Grief, she mused, is situational, much like everything else. “Location, location, location,” she could almost hear him say, but now he was off discussing dinner plans. Part of her wanted him to notice the doghouse boat, while another part didn’t. Was this my issue? A chronic case of conflicting desires? Yes, there is still time, but can one not mourn what could have been, what this moment didn’t fulfill? There’s something almost cruel about optimism. The damp grass seeped through her sundress. Later, at the quaint hotel by the yacht club, they would undress and sex would be a welcome distraction. She had always relished hotel encounters—who cares about the sheets? She always left a generous tip on the nightstand. Now, it was also a chance to vent her anger at him—yes—at his endless, futile chatter, and even at God, a concept she hadn’t contemplated much until now. Now she could almost believe in a great eye in the sky, observing every move. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. It seemed He was indecisive too. This empty vessel.
Later, she thought, she would moan loud enough to startle the little innkeepers.
“Not in the mood for fish?” he asked, oblivious. “How come? Last time—” The boats bobbed, and the land cradled the bay like a crooked arm.