“Does the earth know what passes in those stars that are hurled like a spark of fire across the firmament–so far that we perceive only the splendor of some?…I never feel myself more alone than when I open my heart to some friend, because I then better understand the insuperable obstacle.” – Guy de Maupassant
In the morning we’ll have oysters and fruit. Leftovers, nuts, pieces of pie. I’ll watch you run on the beach until the fog rolls out. I’ll offer you coffee and another piece of pie. I’ll go for a swim. You’ll read a book. We’ll take naps together on the one scrap of grass we can find. If we were to die or if aliens discovered us, this remnant of civilization, they’d find our hands crossed into the leaves of our book, our chests rising and falling with breathing, even in a second Pompeii.
In the evening we’ll go dancing. Do you remember when your mom surprised us back in your high school room? “We’re only dancing,” you ran down the hallway calling after her. I only snorted out laughter so hard I could have made water fly.
I’ll collapse too early back into the wicker chair. There will be uneaten cuts of meat on my plate. Pork chops and slices of chicken, beef juice and scalloped potatoes turning lukewarm. The saxophonist will be swaying. The stars will start to dance a little too. I’ll search for you but won’t find you until I see you crying softly in the corner behind the plants. You’ll pretend you weren’t crying, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see you. I’ll read you poetry I wrote on my napkin. It won’t be mine. Chaucher’s.
We’ll order coffee and bring it up to our rooms. You’ll carry the cream and the sweet caramels that the waitress brought to us on a plate. We’ll stay up the night talking, both slowly and quickly, until the moon begins to fade into the smear of light that crosses the sky. We’ll pack our suitcases. We’ll forget about the caramels. We’ll sleep in and forget for just one moment about the sadness and the pain.
We will drive to your old home in the early afternoon before it gets too hot. Your sisters will clean the house. Your older sister will offer us drinks. Your younger sister will sit in the couch between a roomful of people that feel to me like strangers, beckoning us into the next piece of conversation.
So we will pass the afternoon until the curtains can be drawn and the windows opened to let in the cool smells of the evening. Everyone will leave. Your older sister will go to bed with a remark about the kitchen, not needing to say that she wished she had the strength to help more with the rest of the house. Your younger sister will stand with me as we see her off. I’ll say my sad words to her. She will touch my hand then touch my arm, feeling its hair. I’ll meet your eyes across the room. You’ll be standing in the door. You’ll be too angry to be tired. You’ll be exhausted. I’ll try to come to you, with your sister on my arm. But you, for a moment, will slip away.
You’ll have made it as far as the table. The iced tea will have run watery and warm, but we’ll drink it anyway, the three of us. We’ll play cards. We’ll try to make each other laugh, first you and then each other, until our chests feel sore as if we were coughing.
We’ll eat what is still good of the food your sister brings in from the tables and watch as she takes everything that is left to the trash and some to the sink. We will hear the scraping of the garbage disposal for about four seconds. At first it will sound like the way our laughter felt in our chests. I will think about sleeping on the beach with you the day before, our faces getting burnt, our arms and legs, water bottles, and the pages of our books crusted with sand. We will watch your sister filling another trash bag. You will stand to help. I will be too dizzy with tiredness and free of logic to notice you are gone until I am surrounded by the silence of curtains and buzzing fans.
You will come back and say you saw the stars out, tears in your eyes.Your sister will join you on the front deck, and I will find a bed to sleep in.
As I nudge my body into the sheets, I will think about your heart, and the saxophonist’s and the way your arms clench when you run and imagine the sounds your feet make, puff puff against the floor of the beach sky, tossing the sand behind you as you propel yourself into the disappearing morning fog.