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Last updated: 2/8/2002 |
Posted: 1/1/00 Overpowered by the scent of ocean brine, the cigarette has no taste. She takes a long drag and holds it, letting smoke coat her tongue, tingling. White noise, the sound of waves is loud, but empty somehow; static piped through a cheap stereo. Something between mist and fine rain fills the air, leaving tiny droplets to cling to her hair and wool sweater, never growing large enough to sink in. She has no idea how long she's been sitting here. The rock is uncomfortable, but she's found a roughly butt-shaped niche to recline in. It is cold, but not unbearably so. Her hands and fingers are freezing; she alternates holding the cigarette with one and sticking the other between her shirt and sweater. Her hands are always cold. "I'm not thinking about anything," she thinks, and laughs a small chuckle that turns into a cough. "Weird. I wonder what other people think about when they come to the beach. My head is empty." Finishing her cigarette, she tucks both hands beneath her sweater and clasps them together. To the warm one, the other feels dead and clammy. Examining the dim shape of a tall island through the mist, her mind wanders. "Something's bugging me," she notices, with some surprise. Like one of those irritating brain-games, when she looks straight at it it fades into obscurity. But, when she relaxes and watches the waves and listens to the white noise, it takes on a subtle shape. She closes her eyes. She has been driving for a few days; virtually non-stop. She left abruptly, with no announcement and less drama. Packing a small bag and making a large ATM withdrawal, she just started driving toward the coast. The motivation had come upon her abruptly; a sudden shift. She'd had to go. "I wonder if anyone noticed I'm gone?" After one of the short naps at a rest stop that serve as her sleep, she meandered down the coast. Finding a secluded trail-head, leaving the car, hiking a mile through the woods and a no-man's-land of driftwood and beach, she stopped at this pile of rocks. She coughs loudly again. She has been taking poor care of herself. Running fingers through lank hair she tries to remember the last time she's eaten something other than oranges and coffee. Her jeans are too loose. "Alright, what's wrong? You just drove a thousand-odd miles and you still have no idea why." Cautiously, like a child descending the stairs to a long-feared basement, she thinks about her life. She is 27. She lives alone. She likes to work with her hands. In her mind, she walks through her small apartment. Nothing adorns the walls. A small CD collection is stacked neatly between granite book-ends, organized by artist. The dish drain holds the plate, pan and coffee cup from her last meal on the day she left. A ratty couch is concealed beneath a cheap Mexican blanket. There is nothing in the apartment that divulges anything about it's occupant. She thinks of her job at the museum, and of school. Ugh, she's been in school forever. After high-school, she attended college part-time, year-round; her Bachelor's was a mere pit-stop before grad-school. She is an addict, and just can't seem to stop. She has no idea what she'll do once she earns a Ph.D. "What do I care about anthropology?" Her hands are warm. She slides another cigarette from the pack. Fumbling around for matches, she finds a folded piece of spiral notebook paper in her hip pocket, the fringes worn smooth. Lighting up, she takes a drag, carefully unfolds the paper. It is covered with an artist's scrawl - the script of an architect, or a comic artist. He was sort of artistic. They had only dated a few months before she broke it off. He was passionate, eloquent, and talked way too much. When she told him, he'd, for once, said nothing. He looked at her with a steady, sad look, and simply nodded. "Okay." They kissed once, then he left. "Okay, that threw me," she admits. She'd expected more drama. Two weeks later, she received this letter, dropped, unstamped into her mail box. "I'll never know what's going on in your head," it begins. She stops reading and smokes; watching the mist shift a little, seeing a few details of the island. "You're a very strange woman," it continues, "very reserved. I'm sure you weren't aware of it, but I was madly in love with you. Now, though, as I think about it, I really can't figure out why. I know almost nothing about you. For eight months..." Had it really been that long? "...for eight months I thought you were just very private, very reserved; you give nothing away. But now, I suspect that you weren't really hiding anything. You weren't protecting anything because there's nothing there. You're as empty as you seem, aren't you? I loved you so much because I could project anything I wanted onto you. To your reserved silence I attributed a depth of character that was all in my mind. Who the hell are you anyway?" The letter continues. He'd gone on a tirade and closed by wishing her luck, and saying he was moving out east. Curious, she'd driven by his house. There was indeed a For Rent sign in the window, and she hadn't seen him at any of their mutual haunts. Irritating letter; why would he bother writing such a thing? They hadn't been that close... had they? Each time she reads it it bothers her. She tries to remember details from their relationship, but they are already faded. With a twist in her gut, she tries to recall details from the past year, from her life, and comes up with shallow jokes and half-remembered sitcoms. She scans the letter and finds a section a few lines up from the bottom: "You wear your emotions like various masks, but I suspect you never feel anything below the surface. Your experience is limited to mild irritation, fleeting amusement and distracted affection. Be careful. Someday, something may pierce that membrane, and I don't think the experience will be easy for you." White noise and the taste of briny smoke. "It's not my fault he fell so hard." She examines her fingers. They are dirty and a little crooked. His hands had always been warm. He'd always looked at her with that searching, affectionate gaze. She feels a little sick. "I should be getting back." She glances over her shoulder toward the shore, is surprised to see the woods shrouded in shadow, and the tide stretching 50 yards between her and the beach. She looks back toward the island, but it too is gone. Opening her pack of cigarettes she removes the last one. "What the hell?" Where had all the time gone? She hunches around her hands, squints against the smoke. The surf is incessant. Barnacles cling to about halfway up the rock - she won't drown, anyway. But, it will be a long, cold night.
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