On the Beach

We lay on our stomachs, Mariam and me, as I tried to read Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and she tried to sunbathe, even though the gray sky was heavy with rain clouds.

We talked about how reading can be a battle of wills between you and the writer, a challenge to finish the book even if you're confused, angry or lost all the way through.
I felt all the above about "100 Years of Solitude", but I had promised myself I would finish it, and what better place than this beach camp site, with nothing to distract or discourage me from my mission?

I watched Mariam twirl her hair around her finger, as she always did, and I realized just how much I had missed her these past three months.

Now that she was back from Germany, back to her usual cheerful/messed up self, somehow the past two months of almost maniacal What-The-Hell-Am-I-Doing-post-graduation angst seemed curable, almost bearable.

"I have to get serious," she said and turned a page of her Terry Pratchett, "I have to stop messing around and start taking care of myself."
We left the words bulimia, depression and emotional abuse unsaid.

Then she said "And I think I need to get married."

This nearly shattered my world. Mariam, the Anti-establishment, Zen/Taoist, eternally childish chain smoker suddenly felt the need to grow up, straighten out. The image of her as a suburban mom brought gut laughter and deep-rooted fear rising in my throat.

"We still have time," I tried to soothe her, my only companion in immature delusions of Narnia and dragons, who agreed that 22 is still too young to become sane.

Rain came pattering down onto the sand and onto our bikini bottoms.
We tried to ignore it. Act like it was still hot and sunny, as we talked about our ideal males, but then it got too wet, so we walked back to the huts, taking shelter underneath our towels.

Two years ago I'd had a whole list of what a man should be: bright eyes, clean clothes, charm, manners, the usual crap.
One year ago I had one requirement: Anyone who reminded me of HIM.
And now all I wanted was laughter and understanding.
Two years of nothing make you compromise.
Anything is fine as long as other hands keep you warm.

Back in the hut, I played cards with a boy who knew my father, turns out we grew up on the same street, but had never met.
Something about him ingrained itself in my mind, like the Basata sand in my hair.

Even now, back at my desk on another dismal Tuesday, I can't seem to wash him out. Perhaps because he was so simple, just like the day at the beach, when it rained.