Play ball

Arguments over a small white ball tossed through the air; men conveniently lacking shirts tell each other that they are worthless pieces of shit in the most loving way possible. Someone has made an artistic statement on the beach, propping scattered rocks on their ends-I am NATURAL the statement screams, I am ART. I do not appreciate it.

All the benches are full, I perch myself on the end of MY bench, the other end is currently occupied by a woman with leathery skin. She clutches a cell phone and repeats the same lines into it over and over again. "Hello, this is Lupe, it's Sunday and I don't know if you're working or what..." She leaves after her fifth call, and her place is soon occupied by a boy of nine or ten. I am suddenly very aware of my jean skirt and low slung tank top.

It could easily be four months ago, really. If I close my eyes all I hear are the smacks of the whiffle ball and the buzz of idle chatter-could be gossip about spring semester and house parties and dirty deeds. But I know these people are simple by default: they are on vacation and the only vocabulary at their disposal contains words such as "quaint" and "scenic" and "overpriced." Such simple things should be comforting after the way I longed for them for months. I should take pleasure in the white sails tacking back and fourth, the warm breeze, the pitter pat of gravel under jogger's feet.

But this is not what I came here for. I want to explode, to scream and cry and dance all at once. I want to know what I had that he took from me, because every time I come to this bench I have lost something more. Last time I was here it was raining and I thought I had lost it all. Silly girl to be so sure of anything.

Someday perhaps he will gather all of my hints together and find his way here-read these sentiments and laugh laugh laugh at the power he had and how I believe everything whole-heartedly. And then he will be the one to grunt "silly girl" between chuckles, "silly naive girl, so easily manipulated." So yes, you got exactly what you wanted I suppose, and I allowed it to happen under the guise that it was what I wanted too. And now I forget and try to go on, and I succeed, mostly. And then, life makes sense for a good three or four days. I can forget the smell and the color blue and the wonderful safety that I had for two maybe three weeks. And you seem to know that I'm happy, because these are the moments you pick to ambush me.

"The fact that I'm still talking to you must mean something" you say, drunken gaze fixed on my too sober eyes. "I need to move on. We had something, I don't know what it was but it was there and it's gone now."

Silly girl, to let words like this bring her whole world crashing down around her. Silly, silly girl.