Chapter Two
1071 Words
BEFORE
Somewhere, South America
It’s 8:07 A.M. on a Wednesday when I see you, a day I’m sure is nondescript to the rest of the world, but not for us. You don’t know it yet, but you’re my future. I, on the other hand, sense it immediately.
You, with your crisp white shirt and too-clean khaki shorts, you look like a tourist. But there’s something in the way you hold yourself, and I can tell you’re the kind of person who couldn’t care less. Personally, I like the way you blend. You don’t belong here. You know it, and I know it—but I am here and so are you. You kick a bit of sand, dig your foot in, and I can tell you’re the kind of guy who’s in it for the long haul. You seem surprised by the lack of effort it takes to make the sand and the earth move, and you remove your ball cap and scratch your head. Your hair is the color of coal, and the way it sits atop your head, it’s as though it has been tousled just for me. I watch you take a few steps toward me, toward our future, and I thank someone somewhere for delivering to me exactly the kind of birthday gift I’ve been waiting for all my life.
You haven’t seen me looking at you. Not yet. But you will. I want to make things easy for us, always. So I make my move. We pass each other, but you do not look up, you do not make eye contact, and I love that you’re secure enough in yourself that you don’t bother with pleasantries even though you sense the other person expects it.
I’m imaging our first conversation, and later, our wedding, when you plop down in the sand and make a home for us. You pull a pair of sunglasses from your pocket and slide them on. They’re designer shades. It’s cloudy, and already, you surprise me.
You watch a little girl out in the surf, bobbing and bouncing, thrilled more and more as each wave comes crashing into her, and she looks so familiar that, for a moment, I wonder whether I’m really seeing her at all. But you make her real. I want to go to her—in my daydream, we scoop her up and make her ours. I don’t go to her, though, and I don’t scoop her up because I know these things have to happen organically. Her mother calls to her, and I find it funny how people sense things. Her name is Sarah, and you smile because you sense things, too.
* * *
You’re so close and yet so far away. Even still, it’s almost impossible to believe my good fortune. You’ve checked into the bungalow next door. I have five days with you according to the landlord, an old man with just about three teeth left in his head. You have come to me—despite the shenanigans of the past year, I’ve woken up here next to you, even if not exactly. It’s my thirty-fourth birthday, and you have arrived in paradise where the sun shines and the water beckons, and we are free.
You haven’t spoken to me yet—although today is the day—the day we will meet officially. You’ll suggest coffee, I’ll agree, and I will tell you all the stories of my life. I won’t lead with the fact that I’ve gotten away, free and clear, with k********g and murder and a whole plethora of charges—even though you seem like the kind of guy who might be impressed by such things. I won’t tell you about the voices. I won’t have to because the voices have stopped.
Also, because you don’t need to know everything. Not yet. We have time. You and I… we have forever. In the meantime, I’ll tell you about leaving the States, because you’re American, I can tell from the start. You’ll listen intently as I share the details of how I’ve set myself up here, in this tiny little touristy coastal village deep in South America, where the people are kind, and for the most part, keep to themselves. We will always have this place in common, and I like that idea. We are our own compasses. We’re different and yet already we like the same places, the same things. It’s all very nice, as my father used to say. You will agree when I say we shouldn’t give away our location, not to family, not to friends, not to anyone, because you know what else my father always said? Build it and they will come. He was right, and you have come, and you are the kind of person who knows the best secrets are those that are kept.
* * *
We didn’t meet today. Not officially. Instead, you will now officially go down in my book as the guy who ruined my birthday. Which is too bad, really. We’re supposed to be together, we were supposed to meet via a staged run-in. I had it all planned. Our chance encounter would lead to a long walk on the beach and from there, to the rest of our lives. But you don’t leave your bungalow for the rest of the day, and so there is no run in. I knock, but you don’t answer, and I’m not sure where you could’ve possibly gone. This town is small, and you are a mystery. I like this about you, but I hate it too. I grill the landlord, and I study the lines around his eyes as he says you’ve come alone. They disappear when he tells me he thinks you mentioned meeting a friend, and I don’t like the way he uses this word friend. It’s clear—he knows as well as I do that most people don’t travel to exotic locales to meet friends of the same s*x, and I hope I am wrong about this, about you. The next morning, the landlord tells me you’ve checked out. But how can it be that you are gone? How can we be over when we’ve only just begun? This is how I know it’s time to make a change.
I have to find you.
You need to know the only friend you need is me.
* * *
- Writer
