Past
seven PM, but the sun still hangs above the Pacific as though it will
never set and the surfers still dance the waves. Two chicken legs
crackle and blacken on my makeshift spit. The rich aroma makes my
mouth water. Despair apparently has not suppressed my appetite. Or
perhaps it is the proverbial salt air that makes me hungry.
Hunger
makes me think of sex. Sex makes me think of him. I turn my gaze to
the sea, focusing on the lithe silhouettes of the men among the
breakers, willing my mind to empty.
It
is my first weekend alone and I have run away from my one-bedroom
apartment that still smells of his cherry pipe tobacco. Not far - Leo
Carillo State Park is barely an hour north, though congestion on the
PCH often makes the trip take longer. Today I flew here, or so it
seems, windows cranked down, hot wind tangling my hair, in my blue
Honda hatchback that I have christened Isadora after the legendary
dancer.
I
want to be free, as she was. Free of entanglements, careless of
convention, going wherever my fancy leads, loving whom I choose,
leaving them all with a laugh and a pirouette.
Last
weekend, he disappeared. After we had spent every night for two
months together, after I'd given him everything, made commitments,
burned my bridges, he was suddenly gone without a word. My
imagination painted grim pictures of maiming and murder. I called the
local hospitals. I called his apartment, again and again. He might
has well have dropped off the face of the earth.
I
spent the weekend in an agony of worry. He phoned on Monday to tell
me he'd been in Las Vegas, marrying his old girlfriend. He wanted to
apologize.
Apologize!
I blamed him more for the weekend of hellish anxiety than for the
infidelity. How could I have believed he loved me?
Tuesday
I had to work. Tuesday night I was drunk and high, trying to dull the
pain, ready to fuck anyone who asked. Someone did. He crashed his
car and I ended up in the emergency room, panty-less, still wet with
his come. I hurt too much to be more than a little embarrassed.
I
spent Wednesday and Thursday at home with the drapes pulled, bruised
and sore. My now-married ex-lover showed up at my apartment door,
full of regrets and sweet concern. It took every shred of will I
could muster to send him away.
So
here I am. I've never felt so alone. I'm three thousand miles from
my family, here in this neon-and-plastic city for my first real job.
I was ripe for the picking, I see now, new in town, a naive romantic
who'd spent most of her life so far buried in books. I was ready to
fall, and fall I did.
The
pain is multi-pronged. I don't know which part is the worst. Rage at
his blind, blithe cruelty? Shame at my eager susceptibility? Or the
constant ache of want, the memories I can't keep at bay for long: his
hands, his cock, the way we seemed to read each other's minds? Soul
mates, he called us. I laugh and the wind carries the bitter sound
away.
The
chicken is smoky and succulent. Juices run down my chin. I wipe them
away as I contemplate the waves. If I drowned myself, would he be
sorry? Would I ruin his life? Do I want to?
I
recognize my melodrama for what it is. I'm too sensible to commit
suicide, even for the sake of a soul mate. Still, my future stretches
before me, vast and empty of love. I know, rationally, that there
will be someone else, but right now neither my heart nor my body
believes this truth.
Think
about the near future instead. The sun finally grazes the horizon. A
chill breeze stirs my hair. Isadora waits in the parking lot above
the beach, the tent I bought yesterday under the back flap. There are
campgrounds here in the state park, I read, or I could drive on,
headed north, to San Luis Obispo or even Big Sur. Isadora's gas tank
is full and I have my credit card. I don't have to be back at work
until Monday.
What
do I want - besides him, of course, the man I can't have? Nothing. I
find there's a kind of peace in that, as I sit with my back against a
boulder on the now-quiet beach. The tide has receded. The surfers
have gone home. My campfire has dwindled to warm ash. Purple and gold
clouds streak the sky above the murmuring sea.
I
could stay or go. It doesn't matter, not really. I'm free to make my
own decisions. I feel the tiniest hint of elation. Perhaps I have
something in common with the divine Miss Duncan after all.
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