It had started as a sort of joke, a dare even. After the party had wound down and everybody else had either left or passed out, after he had kissed her once, and released the tension that had built, making everything obvious and exciting and new, after all that, he had looked her in the eyes and told her that they should watch the sun rise on the beach.
They were sitting on the counter amid the ruins of half full red cups and spilt beer, passing back and forth a bottle of cheap champagne they had found hidden in a cabinet. When he had popped the plastic cork the champagne had foamed up and overflowed and he had tried to drink it as fast as it came out while she laughed at him in a way that let him know he had already won. He had to be careful not to hurt this one; she was sweet.
“Okay,” she had said, grinning, “let’s”.
So they waited and talked and drank as the night grew late and they grew tired and then it was almost time and they woke up some because it had become clear that it was no longer a joke or a dare but something that they were really going to do. She had become a little drunk and they were still on the counter, side by side, legs touching and shooting sparks and warmth through each of them, and she looked at him sincerely and studied him, furrowing her eyebrows in a way she wouldn’t have if she were sober.
“What?” he said.
She turned straight ahead again and smiled to herself. She kicked her toes up in the air and brought her heels back against the cabinet beneath her so softly they hardly made a sound.
“Oh, nothing” she said.
He reached around her with his left arm and tickled her stomach where it met her hip. It was firm and smooth and she giggled.
“What?” he said again, but he already knew what it was and this was part of the game, too. She grabbed his hand tight to make him stop and then wrapped her fingers around his.
“Nothing,” she said, softer now, “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
He smiled at her.
“And what are you coming up with?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Maybe there’s nothing to figure out,” he said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Shut up,” she said, “you do too.”
“Do I?” he asked, moving his hand in hers, his fingers around hers, through hers, like a person following a light out of a tunnel. “And what would that be?”
“That you’re not like other guys,” she said.
He waited.
“You’re different,” she said.
“How am I different?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Just different.”
He took another swig of the champagne and finished it. He turned sideways, felt sideways, and looked at her.
“Maybe you don’t know the right guys,” he said.
“I know enough,” she said. “They’re all assholes.” She scrunched up her nose. “Or little boys.”
“And I’m an asshole?”
“That one I’m still trying to figure out,” she said.
“You are?” he asked.
“I am,” she said.
“I’m not a bad guy.“
“I know," she said.
They were silent and looked at each other and he leaned in and kissed her, gently, running the fingers of his left hand through her hair. He bit down softly on her lower lip and pulled away while her eyes were still closed.
“You’re still sure?” he said, grinning.
“No.” she answered, with a little shake of her head, “but I like you.”
“Well,” he said, “the asshole likes you too”.
“Stop it,” she said, raising her voice and leaning into him. “I only meant that I don’t know what to make of you.”
“Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve never met a guy like me before.”
“And how do you know that?” she asked.
“I just do.”
“How?”
“I just do.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
“The fact that you ask me how I know like I’m right.”
“Asshole,” she said, but she was smiling.
“At least that’s better than a little boy, right?”
“Who said you’re not a little boy?”
“Me.”
“So you’re a man?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you a man?”
“The fact that I comport myself like one.”
She paused. “What does comport mean?”
“It means act,” he said.
“So you think you act like a man?”
“I know so.”
“And how do you act like a man?”
He waited, looked forward, thought.
“You act like a man by being soft in the right places and hard in all the rest.”
She thought about it. “I like that,” she said. “Maybe it’s the opposite for a woman.”
“Yes,” he said. “Maybe.”
They were silent for a while and then he leaned over and kissed her again.
“So,” he said, “Am I still an asshole?”
“I’m going to go with yes,” she said.
“What makes me an asshole?” he asked.
“Well, first, you seem awfully concerned with being one, and second, you’re cocky.”
“I’m cocky?”
She smiled. “A little, but it’s a good thing. Girls like cocky guys.”
“I’m not cocky,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“I’m confident. There’s a difference.”
“Fine,” she said, leaning in to kiss him. “You’re confident.”
He leaned back, keeping his face just apart from her's.
“And I’m not an asshole because I’m confident.”
She leaned towards him, over him. “And you’re not an asshole because you’re confident.”
He lay all the way back on the counter.
“Good,” he said.
She brought her nose against his.
“Good” she said. “Now kiss me already.”
He pulled her down into him and kissed her until she breathed in deeply through her nose and grabbed his shirt and pulled him up towards her and kissed him hard.
When they stopped, he had a big smile on his face.
“See?” he said, “I’m not cocky, I’m just very good at this.”
“Yeah?” she asked, “What’s this?”
He looked at her like he couldn’t believe she didn’t know.
“Seduction, of course.”
She laughed. He liked the way she laughed.
“Oh, really? Is that what you’re doing?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“I wasn’t aware,” she said.
“That’s because I’m subtle.”
“Don’t forget modest,” she said.
“You’re right,” he said, “and modest, too.” He put a hand on her knee. ”Now, let’s go to the beach.”
He saw her furrow her eyebrows for the slightest of seconds before she leaned over, pecked him on the cheek, and hopped off the counter too.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s.”
So they walked out of the sleeping house into the quiet streets, bringing blankets that they dragged behind them for a cold they didn’t feel. It was a couple of blocks but it felt like a long way and she reached out and held his hand and it seemed to each of them that they had known the other for a long time, or at least for longer than the night.
When they got to the wooden bridge that led out over the dunes past the scrub grass below and down to the beach they kicked off their shoes and left them there, feeling the cool sand between their toes and the coarse boards underfoot as they walked towards the sound of the ocean.
The feeling had been there for him before, when they were inside, but now he knew and recognized that it was gone, like it always was by now, even if it had lasted longer than normal with this one. That was something at least, he thought. So he pretended, which was almost as good but also entirely different. He looked at her in the dark and she was beautiful, yes, but also simple and untroubled and transparent in her dreams and in that moment he knew he would eventually destroy her. He saw it all in a flash: he would be good to her and reciprocate the love she gave, a love of the sort she hadn’t been able to give away before and a love of the sort it would take her a long time to give away after, and she would give more and more of herself, not knowing she was taking back nothing in return because he had nothing in return to give, and he would want to reach out and save her but his throat would be dry and no words would come— he would be hoarse and sputter and try to find the right sounds to let her know—but it wouldn’t be enough and it would be too late. He would be numb and apathetic and she would grow to understand he had always been that way and that it was this in the end that had broken her. She would hate him for it.
He wanted to change it, to run, to save her, but he knew that it had always been like this, that it would always be like this-- there was never any choice involved, and there never would be.
But then the flash, which was more of a feeling, was gone and there was only the cool night air and the stars overhead and her hand in his, looking for something that wasn’t there.
So they walked down to the waves, their blankets erasing their own footsteps in the sand as they dragged behind them.
They came to the water and the sand became moist and cold and hard. He waded out to his knees; she stuck a toe in.
“It’s freezing,” she said.
“It’s nice,” he said. Then, after a while, “the ocean reminds me of eternity.”
She didn’t know what to say.
He lowered his hands to where his fingertips touched the water. The two of them were silent and each listened to the waves, apart.
“It’s cold and huge and indifferent and it never starts or stops moving,” he said. “And it’s beautiful too, but that has nothing to do with eternity because what we call beauty is a part of us, not it.”
“Why are you interested in me?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” he said. He didn’t turn around.
“You’re smarter than me, and I’m not that pretty, and I’m not going to sleep with you anytime soon... especially not tonight, in case you were wondering.”
She watched his silhouette against the sea as the waves rolled in and out.
“It looks like the ocean is breathing,” he said.
He bent over and slowly lifted his hands through the black water.
“You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for,” he said.
“I’m complicated,” she said.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Me too.”
“I have problems trusting guys,” she said. “I’m a lot of work.”
“That’s okay, too,” he said. “I’ll win you over.” He craned his head back and looked at the night sky and pointed. “You can see the moon through those clouds over there.”
“Why are you so sure you can have me?” she said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just feel like we’ve done this before.”
She felt the air go out of her chest.
“You’re strange,” she said, “you know that, right?”
She was almost crying and she didn’t know why.
“I know,” he said.
He turned around and walked out of the water and she spread one of the two blankets out up and a little away from the line in the sand where the rolling water stopped. As she was lying down on it he suddenly pushed her and she thudded down and he lowered himself over her, holding himself up with his arms. He kissed her and she pulled him towards her with his belt loops and lifted her hips against his and wanted him and wanted to tell him no all at the same time.
After a while, he moved over onto his side and rested on his elbow and brushed a strand of hair off her face with his other hand.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
She bit her lower lip.
“Stop,” she said.
“No,” he said, and leaned over and kissed her forehead.
The waves rolled in and out. To him they sounded like a mother calming her child. To her they sounded like whispers.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she said.
They were silent for a long time and he tried to think of something to say but nothing came. He rolled onto his back and put an arm underneath her head. She laid her legs over and across him.
“Stop thinking so much,” he told her.
“I can’t,” she said. Then, after a while, “how much longer till the sun comes up?”
“Soon,” he said, “soon.”
“Good,” she said. “I’m tired.”
With that, she curled herself up against him and fell asleep.
When she awoke he was lightly, barely, tracing his finger up and down the inside of her arm.
“It’s starting,” he said.
And it was. At the bottom of the sky, where you couldn't tell what was air and what was sea, the first rays of pink and purple were slowly bleeding together into the darkness of the night.
