One

She ran, bare feet slapping the concrete as she flew breathlessly down the road. A left, then a sharp right, the boardwalk stretched in front of her, leading her forward. She paid no mind to the splintering wood beneath her feet " her eyes were forward, locked only on the angry sky and the raging sea. Finally, sand. It slowed her but not much - she was far too determined for that. Her feet punched holes in the smooth surface, leaving small craters for water and crabs and seaweed.

The sand became harder; she slowed, her arms outstretched, and her feet were swallowed by the sea, salty froth collecting around her ankles and sucking at her toes. Still, suddenly still; her dress flapped around her knees, light fabric catching the wind and caressing it. Her hair was a wild nest of knots, tangled and flying in all directions around her head, obscuring her vision. She closed her eyes and stretched her arms out to embrace the sea, in all of its wild, raging glory.

            He saw her escape, her race to the ocean, from behind his truck. Her yellow dress, faded from long days in the sun, clung to her body in protest of her quick movements. She didn’t even seem to be looking where she was going. He dropped his backpack in the car bay and looked on as she became a small speck on the boardwalk. He was in no hurry, his flip-flops making soft noises on the battered wood. Reaching the end of the walk, he watched as she stood silently facing the water, despite the waves jumping up to lick at her knees and the edge of her skirt and the thick grey clouds overhead.

            Slower now, he walked toward her, leaving his sandals beside the boardwalk steps. His feet entered the water, cold and greedy, lapping first his feet and then his calves. He stopped even with her, about three feet away, and stared at the distant waves tearing at the ocean’s surface.

            She was the first to speak, her eyes remaining closed and her hands still out, palms up.

            “Curious?” she asked, her face still uplifted to the sky.

            He didn’t turn. “Would it matter?”

            There was a pause.

            “Not particularly,” she replied.

            Silence reigned for minutes, although neither felt awkward.

            She stepped deeper, the full hem of her dress swirling around her thighs in the black water. He took almost no notice, sea salt drying on his legs, splashing his shorts.

            She let her arms fall and her fingers submerged themselves in the water, a display of defeat and surrender. She looked down at her palms collecting foam, then glanced over her shoulder at him. He switched his gaze from the sea to her face.

            “It was nice to meet you,” she said sincerely, her eyes fixated on his. Then she turned, walked out of the water, and left.

 

//

 

            He stared at the display with incredible apathy, an empty blue basket in one hand. The bananas glared back, challenging him. 99 cents a pound, that’s nice. Right next to the oranges. Neighbors. His hand flexed absently around the basket’s handles.

            A small hand darted into his vision, picked up a bunch of bananas, and set them back down.

            “Too yellow,” she said absently; he watched her with newfound interest. She reached towards the back of the stand, where the greener, newer bananas were banished. She touched one bunch before choosing the bunch to the right. They were placed snugly in her own blue basket, next to the peaches and two small plums. She turned to him as though she hadn’t seen him standing there at all.

            “Are you going to get any?”

            He considered the display for a minute, then turned his gaze back to her. “No, I guess not.”

            She observed his face for a moment; his messy dark hair brushing his eyebrows and ears, his eyes framed by sun-bleached lashes. The irises reminded her of the sea " dark and green, with many secrets and a calm demeanor.

            “Well, come on then,” she said, and turned to walk towards the front of the store. “Are you going to get anything?”

            He followed her absently, taking note of how her jeans were held to her hips with a worn leather belt and the hems were ripped considerably, how her shirt hung loosely on her thin shoulders. He shook himself out of his stupor.

            “No, I guess not.”

            “Want to come with me, then?” she asked, pulling out a few dollar bills to hand to the cashier. She shoved her change haphazardly in her back pocket and put the fruit carefully in her backpack, which had patches sewn to it from years of considerable abuse. She tucked her long hair behind her ears as she walked to the sliding glass doors and out into the bright sunlight, where she waited for him to catch up. She turned and led them out towards the street, walking between the tall beach grass and the pavement. The road extended straight out for miles, and the hot sun made a shimmery mirage in the distance.

            Their shoes beat a pattern into the sandy gravel, a mix of urbanization and nature, decay and purity. The road was old, a sun-bleached path that had once served hundreds of tourists and beach-goers every summer. They would bring their minivans and colorful beach chairs and crowd the shore, vying for the best patch of sand, the best sun, the best waves. Children would kick sand on towels and build castles only to knock them down. It was almost impossible to have a quiet day while on the beach; the screams of children mixed in with the yelps of dogs and the cries of babies with sand in their diapers meant that the sound of the ocean and the waves and the wind were consistently drowned out with the sounds of humanity and civilization.

            Until, one summer, the road didn’t see many minivans. The rental homes were left with blinds closed and doors locked; the boardwalks weren’t used by families towing beach chairs and umbrellas. The sand on the beach wasn’t kicked or stepped on or molded into castles. The waves and the wind were given a spotlight in the showcase of noises. And, although most of the locals lamented the loss of the beach-goers, that was the summer that she found refuge in the silence and seclusion of the ocean.

 

            They walked together; their strides mirrored each other so much that any passersby would surely assume that they were the best of friends. The beach grass seemed endless as it fanned out around them. A small crab scuttled back into its hole.

            Suddenly, she made an abrupt turn into the grass itself " at first he thought she had turned into the thick of it, but when he looked closer at where she disappeared, he saw how the grass leaned away from an opening, a small path between the walls. He put his hand ahead of him as he followed the path; she had already disappeared. As the grasses brushed his sides, he climbed the dune up until he came to the crest, then let his feet sink heavily as he traveled down. He could hear the waves. The grass was so tall it dwarfed him, but it seemed to be more shaded here.

            And then he was out of the grass.

            The white sand spread from his feet " forward, to the ocean, as small waves left foam on the shore; to the right, indefinitely, creating a mirage similar to that on the road; and to the left, where it sat resting at the foot of about a hundred or so palm trees. Palm and mangrove and grass met together to create a sort of forest, the oddest kind of forest, with a floor made of sand and a humid undercanopy. It was quite surprising, actually, to see such a forest in a place such as this. That many trees in one place was uncommon this close to the shore, but the permanence and wisdom of this forest could not be disputed " it had been here for many years. His feet drew him into the trunks as the shade fell onto his shoulders, a glad respite from the beating sun.

            “Slice?”

            She was nestled into an alcove of a mangrove, its trunk arched to cradle her back. She sat slicing a plum with a pocket knife, carving into the flesh carefully despite her lack of attention to the fruit. She proffered him a piece, the juice running down her wrist as she held it up to him. He reached out and took it from her, putting it in his mouth and chewing, enjoying the explosion of flavor in his mouth. He swallowed. She ate a piece of her own as he moved past her, gazing at the ocean lapping the sand through the tree trunks.

            “What is this place?”

            She chewed thoughtfully as she maneuvered her thumb to cut into the remainder of the plum.

            “It has always been here,” she said. She licked the juice from her fingers and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. The wind diligently displaced it, and she let it dance across her face, drawing lines between her freckles. She looked up at him as he studied the lazy ebb and flow of the water. The air was thick and humid, as if they should be swimming through it, and he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. It stuck up in wild directions, and he started, as though he had forgotten where he was. Turning away from her, he moved to sit in the trunk of the opposite tree. He draped his arms over his knees and regarded her with a quiet energy.

            His eyes took her in for perhaps the first time, as she was finally still. Her hair, the color of pale sunlight, contrasted harshly with her dark eyebrows that held strong over her ice blue eyes. Her soft lashes framed them delicately, but the depth was anything but. She held his gaze as he studied her. She did not shift.

            “Do you come here often?” He was observant enough to have noticed the path, however subtle, through the beach grass. As he had lived here his whole life without knowing of this beach forest, any other unique visitors to this Eden of sorts would be unlikely. Still, he thought it best to inquire first-hand.

            Her eyes flicked back and forth between his. He tried his best not to shift.

            “Yes,” she said in a decisive way. Her eyes now seemed to lose a bit of their ice, but not the blue. She unfolded her legs and leaned forward. “I’ve been coming for some time now.” She paused, her gaze unflinching. “It’s got a sort of aura, doesn’t it?”

            “Quite,” he stated, guessing aura was a good a word as any to describe the feeling there. He let his eyes wander again over their surroundings. She took the plum pit and buried it in the sand beside her. He raised one eyebrow.

            “From the land, back to the land,” she stated without embellishment. She let her fingers trail softly along the replaced sand, as if reluctant to pull away. She leaned back against the trunk. She let her eyes close halfway as she tilted her head back, eyeing him.

            “Are you at the beach often?” Her lips moved, but she didn’t blink.

            He swiped a hand though his hair again, only replenishing its unruly vigor. “A fair bit,” he stated. “Early, though. To catch the surf.” He shifted his legs, stretching them out along the sand. His faded trainers sank their heels into the sand, certainly allowing quite a bit of it to slip inside. If he noticed, he ignored it.

            “Surf,” she repeated slowly, as if turning the word over in her mouth. Then, “Not much competition out there this time around.” Her voice was light but he could sense a seriousness beneath it.

            “No, there’s not,” he shrugged. “I’ve always gone out on my own, after -” he caught briefly, then continued. “I don’t mind the silence much.”

            “Silence is golden, as they say,” she said. They both sat for a moment. Then she twisted and rose in one fluid motion, hoisting her bag as she stood and swinging it around her shoulder.

            “I’ve got to go.” She looked down at him, her eyes holding his. “Next Sunday, then?”

            When he had agreed to a weekly encounter, he did not know. But he found that he had paltry excuses and didn’t much mind her underlying assumption. He inclined his head as if lifting a hat. “Sunday it is.”

            She smiled at him and was gone through the trees.

Reviews

[Benitoo]

Very dreamy imagery. The scenery is wonderful - a beach, a market, a path inside grass, and the beach again. There are a lot of great details and anecdotes, such as the foaming water, everything to do with the fruits, and the tale of it having been a busy beach but being left alone and quieting down. The dialogue is succinct and creates a very real impression of the characters and their background. I'd love to get to know them more, especially after the ending which leaves us only knowing about their Sundays, with no information about the rest of the week. I guess that's the point - Sunday is alone, on the beach with no people, just crabs, fruit, trees, foaming water. The rest of the week has to be business. Still, I'd love to see these characters build their relationship and maybe provide anecdotes about the rest of their lives, even though this clashes with the idea of being on the beach on Sunday without knowing anything except for the beach and the things on the beach. Then again, these two specific people are things on the beach, and they're fascinating characters, so if you have something more to write about them I'd love to read it.
EDIT: Oh! This is a chapter, so I guess you will be writing more about the characters. I read this as though it were a standalone story and it read wonderfully like that. Looking forward to reading more.

[nickdaman6]

This story is really interesting. I can't tell if it's supposed to be about how two people met or if it's supposed to be about the mysteries of being alone. Maybe both, which would make sense. But what I really loved about your writing was the amount of detail and description put into it. I found myself waiting to read your next description of either of the characters or of the scenery, rather than waiting for some sort of plot twist. It's a good story and a better mystery, and you did a great job putting it down paper. Good job and keep it up!