“You can’t just talk it away.”
“I’m not trying to talk anything away. I’m merely trying to exist—”
It was a futile attempt to revisit the places where joy once thrived, as if the location itself held any significance. Yet she realized, it’s all we possess, the notion of returning, which could easily be interpreted as faith. And faith was something she felt she had no right to anymore. Yet, here she was, pretending. Pretending was the only way to keep the haunting memories at bay. So they walked on. When the anticipated change doesn’t materialize, and you revert to your former self, what else is there left but to feign contentment?
“The beach?” he suggested. “What about that little beach with the rickety chairs?”
“Yes.”
And so they strolled in silence for three blocks until they reached the shore, feeling a wave of relief wash over her when she noticed the chairs were gone. They settled on the grass, and he began discussing real estate. It always circled back to that. He lamented how this place would eventually be ruined, too. He had a penchant for criticizing the wealthy—the looters! His disdain was as genuine as his unfulfilled desire for money, which always eluded him despite his efforts. He didn’t try to hide the contradiction, and she admired him for his unvarnished hypocrisy. To her, it felt completely natural to resent what you desire. Now, he was blaming the absent chairs on the rich, who were forever seeking to “improve” that which didn’t need it, thereby ruining everything they touched. For her part, though she remained silent and disengaged, the absence of the chairs marked a distinct difference from their last visit, and she was appreciative that the chairs had chosen to vanish, regardless of who removed them.
“It would be nice to break some new chairs and leave them here,” he mused.
She gazed at the water, at the sailboats bobbing gently, and at a peculiar floating structure that resembled a doghouse. At least that still remained. She nearly pointed it out but hesitated, fearing that acknowledging it might cause it to disappear or change in some way. The old boat, adorned with a shingled roof, floated beside the sailboats in the bay. It didn’t quite add up—she felt grateful for the absence of the chairs but equally relieved that the doghouse boat was still there. Yet, that was the paradox. There was still time. The odds were stacked against them now, but not overwhelmingly so, so there remained a glimmer of hope. This kind of thing unfolded every hour, every day. It had happened to her once in her mid-thirties, and she had felt relief. Grief was, she mused, situational, much like anything else. She could hear him echoing the familiar phrase: location, location, location, but now he had shifted to discussing dinner options. She was torn between wanting him to notice the doghouse boat and wanting him not to. Was this her dilemma? A chronic struggle between conflicting desires? Yes, time still persisted, yet couldn’t one mourn what could have been? The relentless nature of optimism felt harsh. The damp grass seeped through her sundress. Later, at the small hotel next to the yacht club, they would undress, and physical intimacy would serve as a distraction, a much-needed one. She had always found hotel encounters exhilarating—who cared about the sheets? She always left a generous tip on the nightstand. Now, it also allowed her to vent her frustrations at him—yes—at his incessant chatter, an unending flow of thoughts—but also at a higher power, an idea she had scarcely considered until now. She was nearly convinced that there was a watchful eye in the sky observing every move. The Lord gives and takes away, and even He seemed indecisive. A hollow body.
At least later, she would moan loud enough to startle the innkeepers.
“Not in the mood for fish?” he asked. “Why not? Last time—”
The boats swayed gently, and the land cradled the bay like a crooked arm.
This narrative illustrates the complexities of returning to places filled with memories, the contradictions of desire, and the struggles of grappling with emotions in a world that often feels indifferent.
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