Closing Season

“Where are you going when the shop closes?” Arora beams, flipping hair that’s been dyed to be blonde, but closely resembles a shade half rotted seaweed instead. 

I don’t know.

“I haven’t decided yet.” I respond. Moving to my next roll of silverware. Arora hasn’t started her side work yet, but I’ll be the one blamed in the morning if they come up short. I sigh, and my ribs hurt. Arora pouts, but leans in, 

“I heard Steph is leaving town. Something about a new boyfriend down South.” She’s fishing, but I don’t bite,

“Good for her.” I respond. Arora sulks, but pauses before wandering off,

“I don’t get it… why you hate it here.” She half smerks, but doesn't wait for my answer.

Melony is an outpost in the strait of Belon menaced by the Sand Sea. The type of town that fills to bursting during the warm season, and feels used up the rest of the year. The type of town that lured the girl I used to be away from home, just to be a part of it all. Just to wash me out in the salt, and leave me 30, at the end of my life. I did this to myself. Made myself into who I am today.

Arora’s prosthetic titters back and forth while she decides the best way to arrange her curls. She was always like this, vying to be the center of attention, craving it, to be part of it all. Kinda like I used to be. Before the accident she was just like any other pretty thing filtering through Melony, but now she’s an oddity. An experience to be collected. At least that’s how tonight's conquest views her. 

He’s too old for her. Heck, he’s too old even for me, but Arora knows this. He’s not the only one collecting. She wisks his plates away, and I drop another roll in the basket. 

Who goes to some place like, The Rusty Crab, to hit on the staff. Not that I condone hitting on your server anywhere, but there’s a hooters three doors down. I kinda get it, with Arora, but come on.

Arora is easy to like. Despite knowing how she is, it's hard to hate her. She’s got an infectious smile, and somehow manages to find the bright side of just about anything. Talk to her for five minutes and you’ll leave feeling like you are her world. Experience has taught me that it's a practiced lie, feed, but never told to everyone she meets. 

I finish Arora and I’s side work, and he finally leaves. I’m not sure if he’s not waiting for Arora outside. I’m not sure if she wants him to. The specter of my waiting apartment, and cozy bed comes to mind, I revel in the thought, but only for a moment. The kitchen closes, and a line cook whose name I can’t bother to remember, and who won’t be back next season, asks Arora if she needs a ride home. She declines with excessive politeness. 

Jack… Jason.. Something obnoxious like that. The type that thinks the world owes him something for existing. 

The bell of the shop door chimes, as the manager locks up, and the chill wind rips my hair into my face. Its fingers rake my scalp, down my neck, and under my jacket. I pull the careworn fabric tighter to myself, in vain. 

The key gets stuck in the door, and the manager starts cussing. He normally opens I know, but I don’t know his name. He’s as abrasive as the sand. Hopefully our normal manager, Alex, gets well soon. 

On the beach a group of kids tempt fate, drunkenly stumbling around a bonfire. The waves rise on the tide. Couples conspicuously huddle under blankets, most aren't watching, but one girl sitting alone stares at the flames, makeup smeared. 

My withered lungs retch against the bitter wind, and a crowd of coughing leaves me dizzy. Over the wind, Arora shrieks and giggles as she greets this evening's conquest. His cold hands must have found skin. The Rusty Crab’s last patron, who will tell everyone about this evening except his wife, and who one of the line cooks will have to run off in a week or so, when he discovers that Arora is familiar with more than just the crabs on offer for the season. 

Today’s been a shit day. Of course most days are shit, in this shit town.

“You need a ride?” I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s the line cook, Jacob. I give him a once over. I’m being an ass, but I also don’t care enough to coddle him.

Fuck you.

“I’ll be fine”  He gives me a look. He thinks he understands,

“I’m not looking fo-” I cut him off,

“And I’m not looking for a ride. I can walk myself home, alone, just fine” His hands find the air,

“Suit yourself.” He walks off, and through the irritation I feel… remorse? 

He didn’t ask for that. He was trying to be good in a way I never was. It’s probably the late hour that makes me get irritated more easily, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Will I apologize to him tomorrow?  Am I the type of person who cares enough to apologize?

Ten blocks up and I’m almost out of the touristy part of town. You can tell since the wood hasn’t been replaced for a while. No one told them that though. Red and white lights assault the boardwalk, beach, and buildings. Too clean rooms and too thin sheets come to mind, but I shut that door. My lungs twitch, an extra flutter at the top of an inhale. 

An unconscious girl is loaded into the ambulance. A boy, probably the boyfriend, runs his fingers through a mop of curly hair, as the sister, bestfriend, or otherwise competent individual winds her fingers through the patients. Tightly. 

I duck off the boardwalk to get away from the pageantry.

Another four blocks closer to sleep, a shrill whistle cuts the air,

“Yoo, Lucky Lucy.” He smirks, Mark is drunk. “You should join us.” Now he’s beaming, very drunk. The door to the cheapest 3rd shift bar in town, Green Dragon, is propped open by his attempt at standing. 

“I open tomorrow” I lie, my nose curling a bit at the smell, but he cheated on me, so who cares. I can’t really shift to look more uninterested than I do presently, but I try. 

“Noooooooo” He wines, “I need some luck. Rich- ard is reeeaming me out at hands in.” He tries to puppy eye me, but 40 year old simpering is sad in the way that former sports heroes on daytime dramas are sad. Odds were, that look hadn’t worked for him since he was 27, and I was 17. His hand reached out and grasped mine,

“Pleeeeasee, I miss yooouu.” A very sad drunk. 

“I need to sleep, Mark,” I say, pulling away. Richard appears from the grass smoke, and hauls Mark back inside. He catches sight of me,

“Lucy,” he draws it out cheerily“long time no see, how’s it going? You look… ruff.”

Fuck you too.

“Thanks” I start walking. Trying not to remember his crumbled face when I dumped him. He was a rebound, a very sloppy rebound. And the type of guy who didn’t deserve that.

“no, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” he closes the door with Mark inside, shivering against the cold. 

“Lucy, do you need anything?” His eyes are earnest, he wants to say more but won’t. He looks, scared, intimidated?  Did I do that? When did I become that person? The person, people tiptoe around. I know I was blunt, but… 

Now a small weak part of me wants to duck in a play cards, like in the old days. Most of me wants to do whatever needs doing to get that look off his face, but the rest of me, the sane part, wants to go to bed. Tentatively and softer than normal, I say,

“Thanks, but I’ve gotta open tomorrow.” His head dips, throat bobbing, accepting the lie,

“Get home safe” He ducks back inside, and before I know it, I’m alone, again.  

The one room apartment is furnished with the basics. Prescription bottles to treat the causes of pain, and empty alcohol bottles to numb it. It’s not like anyone visits. Not dad since I broke his trust, not Emily since I broke her dream, and not mom since I broke her heart. Just four walls postered with my impulsive life non-choices. 

I might be able to do it. Apologize. Bite down my pride and make things right. A possibility, but not a likely one. Richard's face swims in my mind. A few fresh wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, but the same wholesomeness. Not purity, not innocence by far, but a man who figured out how to live intensely without compromise, earnestly. Reaching out a hand. 

I drop my bag, and head back out. Not to the bar, even though it is Richard's fault I can’t sleep. I can’t afford to go there to listen to people complain about the same mistakes I made, while making plans for more. And I can’t afford to waist tips. The gas canisters to treat my useless lungs aren't cheap. The smoke wouldn’t help.

The cold bites, but doesn't everything.

The lone moon, not the twins, sits above the sand sea. Hills form and collapse. Grit finds my skin, but luckily not my eyes. The pier is roped off. It hasn’t been maintained in the last decade, and its original construction was shotty at best. The builders did their best with the poor foundation, but sand is a poor foundation. My poor life choices alone are what brought me to this point. What's a few more? I duck the rope.

Everyone knows that good souls return to the ocean where the first men rose from, but no one agrees on what happens to the bad ones. The ones who strayed, in short, me. I prefer my mothers version, where they get flung into the sand sea to be scrubbed pure. No, to be scrubbed new. 

Once they’ve done their time, and had their sins buffed off, the raw soul emerges once again to be reborn. She said that was why some people were so easy to read. All the extra bits new souls use to hide their shame and anger, old souls don't have. It’s been lost to the sand.

The beams of the pier shift slightly. I wonder how many times a soul can be scrubbed before it does not return.