“You can’t just wish it away.”
“I’m not trying to wish anything away. I’m just…”
It felt futile, this urge to revisit once joyous places, as if their physical existence could somehow conjure back lost happiness. Yet, she pondered, perhaps that desire to return was the essence of faith, and faith felt like a privilege slipping from her grasp. Still, here she was, pretending. Pretending was her only shield against the haunting memories. And so they walked in silence, three blocks to the shore, where she was relieved to discover the dilapidated chairs had vanished.
They settled on the grass, and he began to discuss real estate—the ever-present theme. “They’ll ruin this place too,” he lamented, his disdain for the wealthy spilling forth. His genuine loathing for the affluent contrasted sharply with his relentless pursuit of wealth, a contradiction that she found endearing. It was a natural response for her to despise what she desired. Now, he blamed the affluent for the absence of the chairs, claiming they always sought to ‘improve’ things that were fine as they were.
For her part, she didn’t respond or even truly listen. The absence of the chairs marked a distinction from the past, and she felt thankful that they had chosen to disappear, regardless of whether the affluent were responsible.
“It would be amusing to break some new chairs and leave them here.”
She gazed out at the water, at the sailboats bobbing gently, and at a curious structure that resembled a floating doghouse. It still lingered in the bay, and she nearly pointed it out but hesitated—acknowledging it might somehow render it invisible or change its form. A boat with a small shingled roof was anchored beside the sailboats, and while she was grateful for the absence of the chairs, she simultaneously found comfort in the doghouse vessel’s presence.
There was still time, she reminded herself. The odds were not completely against them. Such moments of clarity often emerged unexpectedly. She recalled a similar experience in her mid-thirties when relief washed over her, devoid of grief. Grief, she mused, is situational, much like everything else—location, location, location, she could hear him proclaiming, but now he was preoccupied with dinner plans.
Did she possess a chronic conflict of desires? Yes, there was still time, yet could one not mourn what might have been? There was something harsh about unwavering optimism. The damp grass seeped through her sundress, and later, at the quaint inn adjacent to the yacht club, they would undress, engaging in intimacy—a welcome distraction. Hotel encounters had always appealed to her, free from the constraints of cleanliness.
“Not in the mood for fish?” he asked, perplexed. “What’s wrong? Last time—” The boats bobbed in the bay, sheltered by the land like a crooked arm.
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