The holiday had started badly, and he blamed the wasp of love.
His first flight was overbooked, it took off late, was twice delayed, he missed his connecting flight and by the time he arrived at his destination his jet lag was a filthy, raging monster that wouldn't let him sleep or eat. Then, the wedding itself was full of people he didn't know, or vaguely recollected, and his long-lost granddaughter had spent the entire night allowing her giant of a groom to stick his tongue down her throat whenever the mood took. Which apparently, was often.
His enthusiasm was dampened with each and every drink - I mean - did any of the guests really believe this swift hitching was a bright idea? And seriously, what was it with people finding love online? Look at this picture of me eating cake! Oh, I think I love you! You're the one for me! And then what? Families forced to fork out a fortune to fly thousands of miles to witness soapy celebrations complete with witless speeches, cheap wine, and godawful nasty food. And then, off they zoom, the lovebirds, to an unpronounceable and overpriced destination fantasising about their life together while the rest of us? Well, we're left to commune with folk we don't know and probably wouldn't choose to know either, if truth be told.
And that's how Roger came to be sitting this day in a low-slung chair on the other side of the world with a woman somehow related to the jit who'd run off with Melanie, slurping beer from a can as waves fanned a foreign shore. And this Marilyn? She seemed pleasant enough, but by god she could talk. Wasn't the wedding wonderful! The dress! The speeches! He nodded now and then but seriously wished he could nurse his hangover with the respect it deserved. But then Marilyn's voice, have mercy, came back into focus.
"So, Roger," she said brightly, "What do you think of Newcastle so far?" Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but he knew what she wanted.
"Well," he put his drink down and looked around.
"This beach, here," he said, "It's...well, it's very yellow. Yellow, and spacious."
Marilyn removed her glasses. "Melanie mentioned that you live in Miami. I've been to Miami Beach, albeit a long time ago. If I remember correctly, the sand there is very white and, how would you describe it? Coarse?"
"There's nothing wrong with that."
"I'm not saying there is."
"Our beaches are famous. The best in the world."
"Well, they certainly are famous."
"And the sand over here is hot enough to blast your feet off!"
Marilyn tipped her head.
"So, you're saying that sand over there doesn't get hot?" Roger's skull was pounding. "Of course, it gets hot! But not like ... this!" He twisted his feet in the sand and withdrew them quickly to make a point.
Marilyn looked at his fat feet and blinked. "I thought all sand got hot in summer?"
"Well, that's just not true!" Roger waved his arms a bit.
"That sand at home, it don't burn your feet and you know why? Because light is absorbed by dark colors and reflected by light ones. It's simple physics. Back home, the sand is quartz and it's white and you don't need shoes to reach the god damn sea."
Marilyn bristled but soldiered on: "I hear there's a beach near you with pink sand? That would be absolutely amazing to see."
Roger peered at her; his face peppered with sweat. "Pink sand? That's Harbour Beach," he said incredulously. "That's miles from where I live. Bahamas. It's in the Bahamas."
"Still," Marilyn stood her ground. "It would be amazing to see." "If you like that kind of thing."
"Well, I personally find great beauty in beaches and the sea." "Well, I say, just because you live near a beach, that don't mean you have to like the beach".
Marilyn was weary and found small talk tough. After that catastrophe, they sat together, surrounded by a waxing tide of sea-goers, in a swelling silence that ballooned until it finally and awkwardly burst into sound.
"Roger," she said, tiredly. "Do you realise that, on this lovely sunny day, of all the things we could be talking about, sharing with each other, two people of a similar age with surely something in common, we've been arguing about...sand."
"Ain't that the truth," he admitted with a frown.
"And it's not real...." "...edifying?" "I was gonna say genial, but there ya go." She shot him a glance. "Perhaps we should just start over?" He shot a glance back. "Sure. We can do that."
Unexpectedly, Marilyn stood up. "When was the last time you went in the water?" He went say "when Clinton was in office", but realised, uneasily, that was the last time he'd put a toe in the sea. She tapped his hand with a painted nail and said:
"Come on! We can do this."
He found the water super-salty but somehow smoother than the sea at home. He struggled at first, but the warm current gathered him up and he was immediately and delightfully weightless. Marilyn was ahead of him now, and he watched her body arc as her arms sliced into a wave, her feet vanishing into a froth of foam.
When she reappeared, her hair was lashed across her face like a crazy net. She squealed as another wave yanked her feet off the sand. At one point the sea pushed them so close together their arms touched before they bounced apart like bobbing apples. Marilyn pulled the tangle of hair from her face and gave him a wide, toothy smile. As the current clawed at his feet, Roger held his breath and crashed under the next wave before exploding to the surface seconds later like a super-charged torpedo.
He roared. She laughed.
So, they did it again.
***
Annie Freer, the author of this piece, is a finalist in the 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition. Read the full list of finalists in this year's Herald Short Story Competition by visiting the Newcastle Herald website.
