Beautiful beach. Beautiful bodies. Very beautiful boys, tall and lean — lovely, really. And those gorgeous behinds of the girls — who are also beautiful — passing along the tide.
It’s lovely, really, to not be so blind to life.
I’ve only got an hour here — a small break I’ve permitted myself smack in the middle of my day. I have chosen this life of malleable schedule; and it demands much more responsibility than showing up at one place, every day, at eight. But then again, that other life seems so brutal. That other life of others: I’ve tried it. I can do better.
An hour. That’s all I’ve got. I’ve imposed a halt onto my day and taken a detour to the beach. I’m going to make up for it later, I think; and I wish I could be more romantic about it: more romantic than crawling out of my skin with my chronic impatience at time. Just how much longer is it going to take until I achieve the life that’s unlike the life others? A life of my own: How long does it take to mold?
In this part of the beach, mostly populated by locals, it is always so quiet — and so beautiful. It’s lovely, really. But I do wish I could be more romantic about it: I wish I would catch myself thinking about the opposite shore where I just happened to be born several decades ago — and that must be why I keep coming by here. To recharge. To reconnect. To think of home, as others often do — in their own life of others. But I have left that shore — that’s the truth — on purpose, several decades ago. It wasn’t working. I tried it. I could do better.
Still, I raise myself up onto my elbows and squint at the line where the dark blue of the water meets the dusty white of the sky: Nope. I can’t really see home from here. Home — is just gonna have to be wherever I am.
But still: It is so lovely, really. And it’s lovely — to not be so blind to life.
I watch a threesome of youth things fling a frisbee to each other, near the tide. One of the boys is stocky. He’s the funny type. I can tell by the way he makes the other two double over with laughter, even though I can never hear the ending to his jokes. The other boy is tall and lean. He’s lovely, really. Whenever he leaps to catch that thing in midair, he reminds me of a dog. I wish could be more romantic about it. I wish I could catch myself thinking about a lovely boy of my near past. But that’s all done now. The thinking, the rethinking — the endless groveling for reasons, clarifications; hastily gathered apologies, crumbs of hope for a reunion, or for some sort redemption, at least — that’s all done now.
I watch the boy launch the frisbee with a mere bend and release of his wrist. Vaguely, I begin recalling all the ones I have treated with kindness, in my life. Thankfully, the ones that got the lesser of me I can count on only two fingers. Because less than — wasn’t really working. I tried it though. I can do better.
And then, there is the girl of the threesome. I think she is very young, hiding her torso underneath a long-sleeved surfing top. She giggles too, a lot and often completely unprovoked. But it’s the ruffle that circumvents her hips along the bikini bottom that tells me she’s still got so much life ahead of her, and way too much youth.
Out of the three, she is the least equipped for the game. When she dashes to catch a throw, she never takes off on time and she always misses. And when the frisbee lands, she runs to it, while laughing; bends over to pick it up, then starts slapping it against the bottom of her right butt cheek, shaking off the sand and making the rest of her body vibrate with suggestion. I think I can overhear her apologies:
“Sorry,” she giggles, vibrating with laughter and the bounce she has started against her gorgeous behind. “I suck!”
But the boys are mesmerized. They don’t mind the stupid game, or that it slows down every time it’s her turn to throw. The tall, lean lovely attempts to coach her a little. But whom is he kidding? She is not interested. Soon enough, she pulls out of the game completely and runs over to the camp of their towels. The beautiful boys do a couple of more throws, but the game is no longer fun. They follow her: Their girl.
Lovely. Really. It’s lovely — to not be so blind to life.
And I’ve only got half an hour left. I shoo away the fragmented thoughts of my next obligations. It’s my life — it’s not the life of others — in which even the breaks have to be disciplined.
I think I doze off. The smell of coconut and perfume brings me back up onto my elbows: Three meters down a family of four is stretching out a cotton sheet, bleached out to perfection. It’s gigantic, waving up in the air like a sail of a boat bringing home a beloved vagabond. The two sons are on one end of it: They are tall, lean — lovely, really. The father is giving out commands from the opposite end, but whom is kidding: He cannot stop from twisting his neck sideways toward a lean and handsome woman, applying sunblock all over her youthful body.
“Hence, the coconut,” I think; and I watch her bend over and slide her thin wrists along each leg, methodically.
This is the life of others. Not my life. And I find myself feeling romantic about it.
The family positions itself onto the white sheet: The handsome woman chooses her place first. The boys immediately flock her, in their unspoken adoration; but they cannot stay down for long. Soon enough, they take off for the tide, with so much youth ahead of them. The father inches over toward his lovely wife: His girl.
This is the life of others. And it’s quite lovely, really.
Okay. Five more minutes. I give myself — five more minutes. They can’t delay me too much. I squint toward the horizon where the two gigantic matters meet, but not where my home is.
My home — is just gonna have to be wherever I am. And wherever I am — is quite lovely, really.