I don’t know why I agreed to this trip. I don’t know what I thought would be different here. Other than the weather. Maybe I thought that would be enough. I can feel his eyes on me, though. Watching from the shore while I float alone in this giant aquamarine gem. The sun and salt seeping into my pores.
For whatever reason, we have the beach to ourselves, and the water is unusually calm–the complete opposite of the snowstorm pounding home. The complete opposite of the tornado of possibilities whirling through my head. Squinting into the sun, I line them up one by one, examining them from every angle–checking them for chips and cracks. Trying to gauge their buoyancy. They likelihood of their survival. The likelihood of mine.
I know he’s wondering about my decision–the same one I tried to give him a week ago. But when I’d started to speak, he saw the tears in my eyes. I could tell because he froze for a moment then looked away and asked if we could discuss it after we got back. And stupidly, I’d agreed. He’d barely made eye contact since then, but it didn’t mean I didn’t feel his gaze on me. Heavy as the pounding heat of the sun–like if he stared for long enough, he could figure us out. Figure me out.
The problem was, I already had. I didn’t love him the way he wanted me to, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d tried so fucking hard. In a way, I was still trying, I supposed. Wasn’t that why I’d agreed to come in the first place?
While he waited for me to pronounce our relationship alive or dead, I let myself sink beneath the surface and stared up through the burning water all the way to the cloudless sky, wishing that flying away were as easy as floating in the warmth of the gulf.
That’s is for me. Click on the names below for the the other bloggers’ takes on the prompt.