Penelope

Salt air stung his nose and the heat enveloped him. He squinted, searching for a spot to lay. Claiming a section near the pier, he splayed his towel and slipped out of his sandals. The sand molded to his toes, each grain sifting under the knuckles of his feet.

Relief swept through him.

Perched on his blue floral towel, his arms over his knees, curved back, he watched the tide. Each wave crept towards him then retreated just as quickly. His breathing mirrored the rhythm, in then out, in then out, in then out. The hypnotic cadence anchored his mind.

The glee of children was audible, their wonderment tangible, even in this private section. Red swim trunks, blue swimsuits with yellow buckets rushed towards the curling water. He watched them play, his eyes heavy.

They'd wanted a child. He'd wanted a girl. He'd have broken his progressive gender dogma and drowned her in pink, ribbons and charms. They'd talked about school districts, extracurriculars and paint colors for the study-to-nursery renovation. South school district, ballet and terracotta, because it was an "earthier pink".

In Russia they had the opportunity to see Swan Lake at The Mariinsky Theatre, an experience that changed them both. The tiny notes and large movements unlocked emotions so deep, he didn't know they existed. Thirty-two fourettes and pirouettes had left his mouth agape. When the curtain closed, his vulnerability was left exposed. Each tear released repressed emotions and left him feeling enervated but re-born. They'd both cried. Later they'd held each other to their bosoms, speaking earnestly about the revelations they'd encountered. The intimacy had entwined them even more and from then on they'd herald ballet as the superb artistic medium.

The children began to gnaw at his ears, their cheer an acute remembrance of what he didn't have. He turned his gaze to the left, seeking distraction. Seagulls sat on the pier, one after the other like stacked dominoes. Their white v-shaped bodies taking off and sailing across the horizon. A few were picking at the discarded trash, left behind by reprehensible beach goers.

On their last holiday they'd fought off seagulls from their table. Waved napkins fended their plates and laughter erupted from their bellies. Birds continued to swarm, they jokingly asked if they were on a secret filming of The Birds: Seagull Addition? On the way back to the hotel he'd picked a fight, a little one but it redirected their jovial mood towards tension and quiet. Too many drinks and he'd asked insecure questions, hacking at decades of trust they'd both built. The rest of the trip was gloomier, despite attempts to salvage the lighter notes of the first evening. All his fault.

His chest tightened and he took a sharp, shallow breath. He looked down at his legs, the orange swimsuit staring brightly against his pale legs. Lying back, his knees still bent, he watched the clouds. Each cloud walked across the sky, in front of the sun, hiding her blinding rays, then past. He closed his eyes, the shifting light dancing over his eyelids. He focused his ears on the waves, seeking their calm. Lulled again by their natural tone he drifted towards rest.

A jolt of panic awoke him. How long had he been frying in the sun? Sitting up he felt the swimming of his head and saw little stars. He pressed his fingers against his skin and pulled back, watching the white marks form. He needed shade.

After pulling over his white linen shirt, shaking the towel, and tucking it in his tote, he headed back to the resort.

The resort was gauche, even with the lemon striped umbrellas and navy recliners. Perhaps it was the way they were strewn around an empty pool or the worn tables, glinting beneath chipped paint. He sat his tote by the recliner and saw the bar to his right, completely shaded and practically empty, except for the morose couple picking at their plates.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked, setting down a small black napkin and a sweating glass of water.

"Can I get a Corona please?"

"Dressed?"

"Sure, thank you."

She nodded and turned her back. Her black hair was pulled into a low ponytail and loose strands shaped her face. She looked young, 20? Could she even serve alcohol? Then again he was bad at this. Aging had made age even more difficult to discern. College graduates, tossed into the monotony of adulthood, were just kids. She sat the frothy yellow drink on another small black napkin, the lime gripping to the glass rim.

The tart and salty taste were exactly what his palette craved. He observed his surroundings, the television played tennis, the morose couple had departed and the bartender was scribbling in a black moleskin. Maybe she was a writer, no probably not. She was most likely studying engineering or a STEM related field. Her sharp eyes and porcelain face were familiar attributes that propelled him to speak.

"Does it usually pick up?"

She turned and sharpened her eyes.

"No, it's always dead. That's how we afford to stay open."

He nodded, a light smile spreading across his face. The spar was too recognizable to stop.

"Well maybe it'll pick up later so you can get good tips. Are you putting yourself through college?"

She looked quizzical then glanced at her gray tee, the popular Ivy League school's name spread in red block letters.

"Something like that."

Her smart face and quick wit panged his chest. She was probably studying engineering, 3rd year and sat on a political club. Her father, a doctor, mother possibly an engineer as well. Was he stereotyping? Maybe, but they'd always discussed the cultural elements of precision and agriculture that breed the rigorous and achieving attributes he knew. Also, only intelligent people can play sarcasm well.

"What are you studying?"

"Communication - can't you tell?" Her eyes slightly twinkled and the corner of her lip turned upwards.

Before he could retort she turned and found a more useful distraction, work.

Her affinity was disorienting. It was in the banter, the facade of annoyance and the jet black hair. Shaking his head, he took down the last few sips in one gulp. Pulling out his wallet, he dropped a $20 and scurried out.

The lead in his chest became salient, while the gray within him grew rapidly. As he sat on the recliner he felt dolor ooze through him, slowly like lava. His throat felt caught, the choke of grief impeding his breath. Everywhere he turned, there were glimpses of him. Escaping his grief had only made it more clear. Distractions conjured memories, even the young woman, a glaring reminder.

He fled the pain of accepting his absence, but no turn or route could evade the loss of his husband. He was everywhere.

No one warned him that he'd still turn in bed every morning to wake him, only to find it empty. No one warned him he'd see his smile and wit in a bartender at a resort hundreds of miles away. No one warned him that pieces of his life would feel hollow, leaving only the silhouette of his beloved. No one warned him that he would still hear the echo of his laughter, ringing in his ears.

In loss, he understood what he found.

Succumbing to grief, he laid back and let it wash over him.

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Her place was only 3 blocks away from the bus stop. Approaching her building she saw men standing on the second floor balcony, their cigarette butts glowing against the night. She was grateful she couldn't make out what they said. Four flights of stairs later, she shouldered the door open.

Quiet met her and she cautiously closed and locked the door. Faint inhales and exhales came from her mother, slumbered on the sofa bed. She placed her bag by the orange bottle and hoped her mom had remembered to eat food with them.

Tiptoeing to their one bathroom, she closed the door then switched on the light. Although the day had started out slow it'd gotten rowdy towards closing hour.

She began counting the bills in the white envelope: 1, 1, 1, 5, 1, 1, 1, 5, 5, 5, 20

The older white guy had left it after failing miserably at flirting with her. His salty stubble, wrinkles that accentuated his blue eyes and high cheekbones were attractive. He'd been too forward, she preferred aloof men. He was just another guy, hoping to get lucky with a young asian woman. Typical. If she got a $20 from every man that did that she could quit her jobs. Rolling her eyes, she stuffed a few dollars in the jar by the glittery pink bow.

Washed face, brushed teeth and oversize shirt on, she snuck under the sheets. She felt the warmth of the small frame next to her. Delicate nose, brushed hair and curled close to the pillow, she kissed her small forehead.

Since she only worked one job tomorrow, she'd make her pancakes with little blueberries for eyes and whip cream for the smile. They'd bus to the park, the big one with fountains, and play in the water. Then they'd come back, Penelope would nap and she'd get ready for work.

That was tomorrow. Lying on her back, she thought about the day and the money she hadn't made. She was $32 short. How much would she need to make tomorrow to make up for the loss? Anxiety induced arithmetic swirled in her head.

How much did she need to make to pay rent this month? How much did she need to make to pay rent and refill the medicine? How much would Penelope's next ballet uniform cost? How much did she need for utilities and food next month? How much could she save? 

Each question followed by numerals so far from reach.

Concentration on the numbers waned and she felt the tug of exhaustion. Exhaling, she let sleep take her.