There is sand between my toes and saltwater in my mouth. The waves move back and forth like a child on a teeter-totter. My father has just dunked me underneath the water. Dad holds my hand so that I am not caught in the undertow, although it is not strong today. My eyes sting badly; I begin to cry. Hurt and dazed, I declare my hatred of the ocean.
There is sand between my toes and seashells in my hand. I have collected these shells to decorate the castle I am building with my older brother, Ed. He tells me to grab the sand on the shore because it is damp and easier to mold. The waves are breaking gently, only a few feet away from where I stand with my bucket. I turn around to head back to our building site. A runaway wave splashes my back, and sand ends up in my mouth. He dusts me off and hands me a towel. I declare hatred for the beach.
There is sand between my toes and seaweed in my hair. My best friend, Rob, a boy from my math class, has lured me into the water. My feet sink into the muddy sand below as the water climbs higher above my chest. I step on a slimy beast, causing me to slip beneath the waves. He grabs my hand and helps me up. I declare hatred of sea creatures.
There is sand between my toes and a cool breeze against my shoulders. The water is calm. I am walking behind him, always behind, staring down at the imprints of his feet. He pauses abruptly, and I stumble. The moonlight illuminates Luke’s crystal green eyes as he turns to face me. His lips are cold; I can taste saltwater. A moment later, he is walking away and waving goodbye. It is the last time I will ever see him. I declare hatred of the moon. I never go back to the ocean.
In my apartment, the only water not coming from a faucet is in the fish tank, where Goldie is swimming happily around in circles. Gazing outside my window, I see tall buildings, lit up with life inside, but not a soul on the sidewalk. The wind is growing faster; the arms of the trees are swaying back and forth to its swift melody. The glass of the window is cold. I sip my hot chocolate slowly, but still I burn my tongue.
The clock reads 2:07AM: time for a snack. The fridge is home to select fruits, bottled water, juice, milk, eggs, and some leftover Chinese (it smells bad, so I throw it out). I look in the cupboard and find a box of cookies. God must love insomniacs.
My husband is sleeping in the next room, but I can hear him snoring. He has only five more hours of sleep left to enjoy; I remain quiet, a skill on which I pride myself. In nearly one year of marriage, only once has he discovered me awake during the night-I lied about having cramps, and that was that. William had clenched his brown eyes abashedly, his cheeks flushed.
I noticed William’s cheeks on our first date: they turned a peculiar shade of strawberry when I glanced in his direction. William took me to the park, where he proposed four months later. I hesitated to answer, but then I caught a glimpse of our shadows enmeshed on the pavement. We were married a month later.
Stale crumbs tumble onto the couch; I resist the urge to grab the dust buster for fear of waking William. Instead, I scoop up most of it with a few napkins. Noticing several water rings on the coffee table, I grab a sponge and clean for a while. By 2:30AM, the living room is spotless. I survey the apartment for a new project but find nothing left unpolished.
I turn to the small bookcase carefully positioned in the corner of the room. William and I each have our own shelf: the top one is home to his old chemistry texts, Michael Crichton novels, and vintage editions of Scientific American; the bottom one houses my travel book collection-Europe, Russia, Australia, and so on around the world. I have yet to visit these places, but I am prepared.
During my last semester of college, I applied for study abroad in London. I was accepted but declined, so I would be home for my father’s sixtieth birthday (as he had requested). Last year, my company offered me a position overseas, but I rejected it. William likes the city.
No books tonight, I decide. Yesterday’s mail is still lying on the kitchen counter; I examine the contents: bills, advertisements, and a postcard from my parents, who are vacationing in Tahiti for their anniversary. The picture displays sapphire water drifting onto ivory sand. With a cheap, stolen office magnet, I hang the postcard on the fridge. The light overhead bounces off its shiny coating, temporarily blinding me.2:45AM: my mind drifts to sea.
Birds fly overhead, and I fear they will relieve themselves on me (it has happened). Under the sun, I feel my sixteen-year-old skin toasting to a cancerous brown. I want to cool off in the water but I am afraid of encountering sea lice or other marine vermin.
His green eyes survey my body, investigating my crispy flesh (I know what he is thinking). Luke asks if he can rub suntan lotion on my back, and I nod. His hands are warm. He already smells like SPF 30-flavored coconuts, and soon I will, too. Convincing me to dip into the water, he guides me into the deep. The current begins to pick up; I feel myself slipping, but he is holding me beneath the waves. His hand grips my belly, and I become self-conscious. He leans in closer, smelling my seaweed-infested, drenched locks. I pull away.
Our towels are sandy as we dry off. I scratch my foot on a seashell and bleed (embarrassingly); luckily, it is a small cut, so he doesn’t seem to notice. We stay there on the sand until it grows dark. Everyone else has left hours ago.
He takes my hand, and we walk-I am one step behind, always behind. Afraid my hand is sweaty, I let go. Suddenly we are kissing, but in a moment it is over. He leaves me alone, under the moonlight.I declare my hatred of solitude.
My husband, wandering aimlessly around the apartment in a drowsy stupor, awakens me. William kisses me on the forehead and asks where his tie is. I point to the ironing table, where his clothes are neatly placed. He thanks me, then asks the inevitable question: “What are you doing out here, sweetie? Did you fall asleep in front of the TV again?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, “cramps again.” William’s cheeks flush slightly as he grabs his clothes, disappearing into the bedroom again, leaving me alone on the couch.
William is the only person I know who works on Saturdays. I go to the kitchen to make him breakfast. Fifteen minutes later, he comes in to drown a cup of coffee and to devour his eggs. “Love you, honey,” he calls on his way out the door.
Cool air rushes inside as I open the window, allowing in the sunlight. There are people wearing jackets and coats as they hustle across the street. The trees have slowed down their pace to a gentle sway; the wind is humming quietly.
Deserted in the cold apartment, I sip on my cup of coffee. It warms me inside; I burn my tongue. The sunlight bounces off the postcard. With another sip, I can taste the saltwater.
