Everlong

And then, as it has since the Beginning of it all,

Summer had come again.

The sun burned bright and reassuring from the window in my apartment as it had before. But this time, the warmth couldn’t touch me from my empty bed. The rays stretched out across the apartment, searching for me. They beckoned me, but I didn’t budge from my side. I faced a gray wall. I wasn’t interested in a new season. 

Last summer had been different. I couldn’t wait to get out of bed, couldn’t wait to run outside to my car. I always seemed to be running late. Maybe it was from the deep, black, thoughtless sleep the sticky nights provided. I would wake up groggy and quickly dash to the gas station to pick up our energy drinks. Purple one for me, blue one for her.

By the time I would get to the counter, like clockwork, my phone would typically buzz incessantly. I looked away from the cashier to my phone. She never liked to text in just one bubble.

HELLO

IM WAITING HERE

FOR 

YOU

As always, I would reply some snarky response like 

Sorry are we meeting today?

But she’d catch the sarcasm, despite the text with a middle finger emoji

SEE YOU

IN 

10

Then I would head to the boardwalk, the condensation of the sweating drinks wetting my fingers. And I’d turn the corner on 9th and she’d be there waiting expectantly for me on the park bench. 

Sometimes she would hop up, guitar in hand and pretend to bash me over the head with it. Sometimes she’d lay, eyes closed, mouth open dramatically, and pretend to be asleep. One time she hid entirely, and, knowing my routine- crept up and scared me from behind. 

Then we would head to our bench. I’d joke about the guy at the gas station. She’d vent about the traffic. We would take sips of our energy drinks sometimes in complete comfortable silence, watching the tourists begin to clog up the boardwalk. The sun would hit a certain height in the sky, and we would get to work.

Without warning, always without warning, she would begin to strum on her guitar. I’d throw my lucky bucket hat at our feet. Automatically, I would let my mind pick up and remember the song and I’d sing.  Strangers passed by with smiles, admiring us. Some would entirely ignore us, too wrapped up in wrangling sandy kids. Some would ride by on their bikes, sunglasses on, blazing ahead.

 I know she loved when the dogs would stop by. Especially Dalmatians. Like draws to like, after all. The dogs loved her magic laughter, her excitable seated bouncing, her dimples. Sometimes she would stop our performance entirely simply to pet a dog, as their owner would toss a tip into our hat.

And so it went, for hours on end. Our skin would redden and sting. We would take our tips and grab lemonades for our raspy voices. Or we would get ice cream and fries at the dock and vent about the dumb tourists that would feed the seagulls. 

If we were feeling particularly lazy, we would stop busking all together and go get margaritas at the Mexican place on 12th. She would flirt with the waiter or waitress, and, as usual, they would melt for her. Our drinks would be particularly strong. 

One time we had gone to the fortune teller on 20th, holding back our snickers as we went through the beaded entrance. The fortune teller had held her palm and grinned, 

“You have a raised Mount of Venus. You’re passionate. It’s easy for you to attract people.”

At this, she turned to me and wiggled her eyebrows. I had scoffed and laid my palm flat on the table for the fortune teller. Her smile had faltered when she noticed the broken lines on my palm.

The best part of the day typically would be when we would head back to our bench, as the sun would set to lavender. The sweltering heat would break, cooling the sweat from our foreheads. People would lift their sunglasses from their heads, gazing around without squinting. I always felt our final song was our strongest. 

I remembered, one non special twilight, I had looked over at her. She was strumming her guitar like always. She was smiling at a passerby. She was singing along with the same familiar trail of words. I had felt my chest cave with yearning. I blinked and tried to keep a mental picture of her and the sand and the sky and the bench. I wanted it burned behind my eyelids like when one looked at the sun for too long. I wondered if anything could ever feel this real forever. If anything could ever be this good again.

The days got colder and the tourists became fewer. They now were bundled in sweaters. They couldn’t stand and watch for long. One by one, the shops began to pull down their metal doors shut for the season. She took longer to reply to my texts. She always had a reason.

Sorry I can’t today.

I’m busy.

I’m tired. 

Read 10:29am.

Days went by unanswered. Then weeks. The nights grew longer. The bench sat empty. And one day I woke up, and suddenly that familiarity was just gone.

The string had snapped and broke. The song had ended. And I didn’t see her or her dimples or her guitar or her laughter anymore. All I saw was night. All I felt was a yawning stretch of without. I didn’t want to sing along to the songs in my car anymore. I wanted to ride in silence.

And I wasn’t interested in a new season, in a new summer. I turned my back from the light, curled up in my bed. I remembered this all, staring at the wall. 

But I also remembered the fortune teller again, who had grabbed me by the shoulder, just before we left the shop. I had lingered behind alone, and the teller had looked me in the eyes, a little too deep for comfort.

“You’ve gotta promise not to stop. Don’t give up,” the teller had pleaded, softly, their voice barely grazing above a whisper. I had laughed a little because I was taken aback. And I had shook the hand off my shoulder. I had not understood the warning because I had not wanted to.

But the clarity came to me now from my gray bedroom, in the light of a new summer. I groaned and rolled out of bed. I lingered anxiously at the door of the gas station. I only bought the purple drink for me this time and bit back the familiar pang of yearning. 

But then, at the counter, I met the cashier’s eyes. In all my days of coming, I had never noticed they were blue. They crinkled with a familiar smile as they looked back at me, and he greeted,

“Hello! I was waiting here for you to come back.”

I couldn’t help but grin back.

Summer had come again.