Beach Bodies

A short scene about a kid on the beach watching a family.

The water splashes up around the little girl's blue dress, sparkling like the glitter in her tulle. She squeals and laughs, her parents stand a little way back, both dressed in black. The man, presumably Dad, has his arm around the woman, maybe Mom, and she has her hand wrapped around a handkerchief and pressed to her mouth. They both look tired, but their eyes never leave the girl, it's almost like she's the only light on this summer day that they see. They look very odd, in their nice, dark clothes, surrounded by beach bodies, swathed in pastels and neon brights.

The little girl tires after a little while, tromping through the sand, looking thoroughly pleased. When she reaches her parents, her little eyebrows crease a little when she looks up into their faces. "You're really not mad that I got my good dress all wet and sandy?"

Mom pulls her hand from her mouth and smiles, it looks too thin in her puffy cheeks. "Not at all, darling, it can be washed." She reaches out and pulls a hand through the little girl's hair. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah! Can we get ice cream on the way home?" She asks, taking both parents' hands as they begin to work up the dune to the walkway.

"We have ice cream at home." Dad tells her, less like he's reminding her and more like he's annoyed with the question. I can see her frown a little, the corners of her eyes dipping low.

Seeing it reminds me of my own father, the last time he picked me up from my mom's. I feel like telling him that, considering he looks like he just came from a funeral, it's appalling how little he'd learned from the experience. Mom looks like she feels the same, but she doesn't say anything. When the reach the walkway, the little girl slips a little in her wet shoes. Mom tries to stop, but Dad yanks her non-too-gently up. The little girl starts to cry, she asks him shrilly why he did that to her. More people are watching now, watching the little girl's fit and Mom's rapid whispering to him. After a moment, Mom reaches down and pulls the little girl up into her arms. He shrugs and takes off, walking much quicker than Mom can with the extra weight. The little girl is still crying, she kicks out a little and Mom's purse rips from it's strap, but she doesn't notice.

Without really considering it, I stand and jog up. If I'd thought about it, I'd probably have called out to her before I picked up her purse, just so it'd be easier and simple. Not that I could have foreseen Dad turning at the very moment I stooped for it. By the time I straighten up, bag in hand, he reaches me and knocking me to the boards. "You scum!" He bellows, yanking the bag from my hand. I can see Mom staring, mouth wide, and her daughter has stop crying. "Can't you tell that we've just come from a funeral! And yet, you still steal? Your momma must be real proud of you, son!"

"It broke off," I gasp, "I happened to glance back and saw it happen." I press my hand to my throbbing nose, feeling blood. Great, I think, my last good shirt.

"Says the junkie." Dad spits, "Stay away from my family."

Pulling myself to my feet, inadvertently checking my pocket for my baggie, I can feel myself trembling. With clenched fists, I look the man in face and snarl, "Yeah, maybe you should too," before turning to walk back to the beach.