Coastline

I sit on the shores of the coastline, the sand is warm, the water dances with blinding radiance and the people around me are light-hearted . Today was described as one of the few remaining days this year where the beach can still be enjoyed, so, they celebrate a dying season by wading in rushing water. I am unnoticed by any of them, my translucent skin isn’t alluring enough but I watch them intently, from my set-back position away from the threat of tides. If I watch for long enough, I may be able to replicate these frivolous feelings once more and the divide between us may be bridged.

Here on the beach, next to brightly coloured towels and between umbrellas the shades of coral, we become an aquatic eco-system. It’s reflective of the one under the surface of the water, but we are far more destructive and less enchanting. The young couple to my right are sea horses, their poised bodies so delicately holding onto splendour. The Father’s chest sticks out with pride as he runs around, rounding up his five rampant children that float about. Their Mother sits back to soak in the sun, she has bigger concerns, like the small amount of white wine remaining in her plastic glass. Her gaze is not on her offspring but rather down near the breaking point of the waves, where two young men splash about. Their demeanours remind me of dolphins with skin hairless and glistening. I can tell they’re used to being admired for their beauty and excused for their transgressions. If I were to be a sea-creature, I would be a sea urchin – lurking just beneath the surface. I am nothing regal nor intriguing, I am a stationary creature, ready to sting whoever gets too close. That’s what you’ve turned me into.

I pinch my skin until I bleed, a punishment for only lasting a few minutes before letting you swell into my mind; but now that you are there, I can’t get you out. My feet in the sand do not feel the same as when they were buried in your clean sheets. Instead of ocean brine, I long for the smell of the detergent you use to clean your sheets and rather than a towel under my thighs, I try and imagine the support of your mattress. No matter how tightly I shut my eyes and pretend I’m back in your bed, I’m unable to conjure a convincing escape; the sound of the waves unfairly holds me here. So, I give the sun permission to burn my skin, maybe it can burn enough of me that when it starts to flake and peel, the raw flesh beneath will be the fresh start I need. I will no longer be craving you or the company that comes with you.  Will I also look different and refreshed? No longer burdened with the wrinkles and blemishes that I used to hold some form of pride for? If I look changed, will people start noticing me again?Will I have the same youthfulness that drew you towards me in the bookshop, when you spoke to me longer than your customer service required you to?

                Maybe if I could shed my skin, I would gain the attention of the man in my eyeline, collecting shells in the space between wet and dry sand. Each piece he picks up he examines in detail before deciding whether to throw it back or keep it in his clenched fist. The lower half of him is wrapped in light-blue board-shorts with repeating boats, they almost fade into the water behind him as if his intention is to be partially camouflaged, but his attractiveness betrays him. Though I wish to drown in thoughts of you, I can still appreciate the beauty of others. If he did look up right now and caught me staring, maybe he would approach me, but if he were to put his ear to my open mouth, he would hear the sound of waves. I am hollow enough that you can hear rolling dark water within me. Surely, if he heard that, he would throw me away in pursuit of a less faded prize. I might be able to change my appearance, but my loneliness is as sticky as sand.

              I hug my knees to my chest to keep warm against the crisp air and think back to what used to make me whole. I think it was always you, you and the people that love me. But you are not here, and neither are they. When I was younger my Mother told me that the people in our lives were tides. The waves will always continue to roll in and out and all we can do is stand in the shallows. So, I confidently let farewells wash over me; next to cars packed with possessions and in bustling airport terminals - believing goodbyes would sit like grains within me, turning into shining promises of returns. But now I realise, I’m not filled with pearls, only specks of lonesomeness that constantly irritate me. This should mean I’m used to send-offs, but then why was yours like saltwater against my cracked lips, and why did my body go into shock from the coldness of you? Was it because it was so unexpected? Was I oblivious to you standing waist high in indecision, waiting to gain the courage to dive headfirst and break me? I suppose it doesn’t matter -or at least it shouldn’t- it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve been rolled onto the shore like all the other dead things the water brings.

              As a distraction from these feelings, incongruent with the summer day, I pick up my phone and squint to see the screen behind the sun glare. The countless dating apps that I’ve installed greet me with alerts – red and bold drops of blood. I know what this type of toxic attention does to me; each app is as if I’m throwing out crumbs of myself onto the sand. Instead of a lonely sea-urchin, I could be surrounded by a swarm of sharp beaks and beady eyes, hungrily peaking away. They would follow the trail and reach my feet, tearing pieces of me; muscle and skin scattered about.  I wouldn’t be able to fault them for what they do to me, they would be acting on mindless instinct; taking what they need before flying off. And if by chance, one settled and wanted to build castles with tiny windows and doors; in my current state, the castle would only cascade through their fingers whenever they tried to form it. I no longer know what makes me thick and sludgy and stable. It used to be the dream of building a home with you. A house big enough for children to play, somewhere just offset from the beach so we could walk down with arms full of towels and toys. But these dreams should be reserved for those in love and I lack the strength to discover if one of these circling gulls has the potential to make these future promises. So, I put my phone away in my backpack – the temptation to fill empty parts of me with temporary things is also put away.

            The sea-foam clouds that only dotted the sky a few moments ago have banded together. I want them to block out the sun and saturate the ground with water. If the presence of the sun is extinguished for everyone else, we’d be on equal emotional levels again. I would not be the only one experiencing the heaviness of disappointment.  Blooms of falling water begin to dot the ground, and just as I notice, one splashes on the top of my nose. The ocean scents are replaced with the assurance of heavy rain and I know my wish has come true.  Collectively, people begin rushing to try and weave between the droplets – even those who are already wet from waves can’t stand the idea of getting wet from rain. You used to hate the rain too, will you despise this afternoon turn as much as you despise me?
                The boys who were splashing in the water run up to their collection of possessions next to me and flick their towels, so sand catches the wind and stings me. For a moment, I think to myself that I deserve this punishment, but it quickly blows out of me. I had believed that the choice you made to stop loving me was due to fault of my own. I saw myself as a siren who lured sailors to their deaths, but I’m beginning to realise that that’s not my nature and I do not physical and emotion pain. You can’t blame the weather for raining on a sunny day and neither can I blame myself for our decline.

               In a matter of minutes, the once full beach is abandoned but I remain stationary a moment longer, letting the downpour settle on my skin and on my possessions. Now with a clear pathway, I stand and make my way down, stepping across the sand that’s being erased of its footprints. When my feet reach the line of broken shells and seaweed, I stop.  To my left, against a wharf, I watch the naked masts from the docked boats. They remind me of tombs pointing to the sky. I think that’s where I’ll put you and me, or at least that’s where I’ll put my belief of what our love was.  People are as unreliable; they aren’t steady waves but riptides that drag you out and waves that crash down. All that can be done to survive it is to learn to tread water until you’re far out enough that you  find the point where you can lay on your back and float.  One day, someone may look out and see our mast calmly bobbing against the waves and only see beauty, not a graveyard for loves lost at sea. If I leave a trace of you and I in the world, a memento, I hope it means it wasn’t all for nothing.

The man with the boats on his shorts emerges from the water to my right. Like me, he doesn’t seem phased by the current drenching of the earth. Gazing on his face as he steps out, I find myself falling into what I believed were breakable habits; I try to find you in his features.  I have to remind myself that the piece of you that I held onto is now by the barnacle-covered pier, and the rest of you is with someone else, hiding from the rain. So instead, as he stops and pointlessly wipes his face with his towel, I try to look for dissimilarity. His eyes immediately draw me in, hidden amongst wet hair. They’re grey, like the clouds, not the mistrusting blues of the ocean. And then they are suddenly upon me and I realise clouds are always clear on their intentions. He brushes the hair from his face and smiles at me. After a second of hesitation, he begins to cross the space between us until he stands a breath away.
              “Perfect day for the beach.” His sarcastic casualness is refreshing. When I say nothing, he shifts slightly in the sinking sand and faces me. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you ok?”
              “I’ve been better.” The words are released from me as I break the surface of emotional hesitation. He pauses for a moment, “Me too.” And then we’re both treading water together, realising that we’re not alone in this endless stretch of blue.  Maybe he was never looking for shells but instead pieces of shining sea-glass that once were sharp but have now been shaped by the water and maybe that's exactly what I'm becoming.