“You can’t just wish it away.”
“I’m not wishing anything away. I’m just trying to exist—”
It was a futile effort to return to places once filled with joy, as if the location itself held the key to happiness. But she reasoned, maybe that longing for return was simply another form of faith. Faith, she mused, was something she felt she had no right to hold on to anymore—yet here she was, pretending. Pretending was her only defense against those haunting memories. When expectations of great change fade into the mundane, what else is left but to fake it?
“What about that little beach with the broken chairs?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
And so, in silence, they strolled the three blocks to the shore. She felt a wave of relief upon discovering that the chairs were gone. They settled onto the grass while he rambled on about real estate—how it always boiled down to that. “They’ll ruin this place too,” he lamented, railing against the wealthy, the “looters!” His anger was as authentic as his yearning for the money that perpetually eluded him. He didn’t even try to hide the contradiction. She admired his candid, if hypocritical, nature. It felt natural to despise what you desired.
Now he was blaming the chairs’ disappearance on the affluent, who were always meddling with things that didn’t require fixing. As he spoke, she remained unresponsive, lost in her thoughts. The absence of the chairs marked a shift from their last visit, and she silently appreciated that the chairs had at least acknowledged this change by vanishing—whether driven away by the rich or not.
“It’d be nice to break some new chairs and leave them here,” he joked.
She gazed out at the water, watching the sailboats bobbing gently. There was a strange floating structure that resembled a doghouse, still anchored in the bay. She almost pointed it out, but feared that acknowledging it might cause it to disappear or transform. This old boat with its little shingled roof was a curious comfort. She was glad the chairs were gone, yet relieved that the doghouse boat remained. Life had its quirks.
Of course, there was still time. The odds were against them, but not overwhelmingly so. Every hour, every day, still held possibilities. She remembered a moment in her mid-thirties when she felt relief despite the absence of grief. Grief, she reflected, was situational, much like everything else. “Location, location, location,” he would say, but now he was distracted, pondering where to dine. Part of her wanted him to notice the doghouse boat; another part did not. Was her problem a chronic clash of desires? Yes, there was still time, but could she not mourn what could have been? There was something harsh about relentless optimism. The damp grass soaked through her sundress.
Later, at the small hotel by the yacht club, they would undress, and sex would serve as a welcome distraction. Hotel intimacy always thrilled her, a break from the mundane—she left generous tips on the nightstand. It was an opportunity to channel her frustration, not just at him, with his endless chatter, but also at the idea of God. A higher power watching over every move began to make sense. “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away,” she thought. It seemed even He was indecisive in this empty vessel of hers.
She could almost laugh at herself. “Not in the mood for fish?” he asked. “Why not? Last time—”
The boats danced above the water, the land cradling the bay like a crooked arm.