Moonlit Surf

If I could describe the beach during it's different time periods--night and day--I would describe it as being like two different worlds.

The beach during the day was a world of chaos. It is loud. Crowded. Rowdy. I hate the beach during the day.

She hates it too.

The beach during the night is the better world; during the night, the beach is stunning. There are no more people--most people prefer to swim in the direct radiation of the sun--so the beach is quiet. It's quiet, yes, but it is also filled with so much noise. Not the noise of yelling people; not the noise of small, annoying, children playing in the sand or water, laughing, crying. Those noises, I can't stand.

No. The noise I mean is the sounds of the waves, not being silenced by the onslaught of yelling of the beach. The noise I mean is the silent breeze, that somehow has it's own sound, unheard, yet sensed. The noise I mean is her breath when we walk along the beach, hand in hand; her breath is always so soft, so frail, so delicate; Sometimes I squeeze her hand, and when she squeezes back, I know she's still breathing. The noise I mean is her breath, ragged, uneven, rough--I especially love this side of her; I know, despite her perfection, her beauty, she is still human--when we make love on the sand; her body underneath mine in moments of pure bliss, pure adoration, pure love.

In short, the beach at day is overwhelming. The beach at night is perfect.

The reason I know the difference between these to worlds is because, when the moon rises to it's highest, I meet her at our beach.

We met at this very beach, actually.

I had come to this beach for a quiet swim. She was there for a quiet night.

I was in a tattered bathing suit, too old, too worn. She was in an expensive looking bikini. Usually, I scoff at such high priced clothes, but, on her, I couldn't imagine anything cheaper on her. The idea of her wearing a thrift shop one piece like mine was beyond anything I could comprehend.

Even the tear stained eyes she looked at me with only seemed to add to her charm. The bright red of her cheeks burst out with colour like a vibrant cherry against the whitest of creams. The drastic curve of her body as she folded into herself held meaning beyond me that couldn't describe. She was--and is--so gorgeous. So sadly beautiful.

She told me her story. A story that shouldn't have been given to her. She's too good for this story, much too precious, for this story.

"I have no clue why it took me this long to figure out," she whispered to me on that night. "When I look back, it was always there. A shadow I've always ignored. That I've always been told to ignore."

Then she told me her story.

"I met him two years ago, in my senior year." She twisted a diamond ring on her finger. "He was charming--he's still so charming.

He sat in the desk next to mine--our teacher assigned it--and he was always looking for a conversation. Every day before class started, he'd ask me "How are you today?" I liked it. It was like he truly wanted to know, wanted to know how I was feeling, if anything was bothering me, if there was anything he could do. It was stupid, reading so much into one question, but that was how I felt he asked it.

I would always answer him honestly. I couldn't find it in myself to lie to him, to a person who I thought sincerely cared, so I would almost always say Terrible. Today was so terrible I can't stand it." Her body violently twitched in a sob. "I have depression," she explained to me. As if I couldn't see the despair, deep in her eyes. As if I couldn't see the thin scars, paler than the rest of her skin, lining her arms. She said it as if she were used to people not knowing.

"He helped me. He would hug me when I cried, he would let me lean on him when I couldn't stand on my own, he would hold my hands when they were shaking so badly that I couldn't hold them in front of me. He cared." She shook her. "He used to care so much. Now," she shook her head again. Was she trying shake the thought away, or was she denying something? I wish I had asked.

"Now, he can't stand me. Can't look at me. Can't touch me. He'd . . . he'd rather touch someone else."

I was furious. How could any man give someone, so perfect, up? How could he give up the world for a passing comet? What this man did to her, I couldn't begin to understand.

"If I were him," I told her. "I wouldn't even be able to look at any one else. If I were him, I would get so lost in your eyes, I'd never be able to look away. If you were mine," I only realized my shift in my wording later, but I would never take it back. "If you were mine . . . I wouldn't--couldn't--be able to let you go."

We agreed to meet at the beach the next night. Every time we met, she always had something to say; the man she was married to was unfaithful. Unworthy of her. After months upon months of our meetings, I finally asked the right question.

"Why do you stay?"

"I love him." She said it immediately. She was so sure. Or maybe she was just used to saying it.

"He doesn't love you." I would never hurt her purposefully. Never. But, after I said this, I could tell it hurt her. It was necessary, though, because it was true; he didn't love her. He was using her.

"I . . .," love you. I would never treat you like he does. I would always love, just let me be yours.

"I don't think you should stay with him when he's treating you like this."

That night, a ring, diamond and gold, covered in sugar coated lies and filled with shattered promises, was thrown into the sea.

Maybe it sank to the bottom, the pressure of promises off of it, but the weight of the ocean now pushing against it. Maybe it was taken by the waves, afloat, bobbing across the salty water. Maybe it was taken to a far off island, washed up on the sand, waiting for someone else to make promises that won't be kept. Wherever it is, I'm glad it isn't here. Isn't on her slim fingers, making her keep her word when he didn't.

She doesn't wear a diamond and gold ring now. She wears a silver ring with amethyst, the colour of her favourite flower--the violet.

I wear an exact twin of this ring.

The beach at night is our favourite world. A world of our own, filled with the crash of waves, the whisper of wind, the whisper of breath.

The beach at day is chaos. That is where people like him stay. Surrounded by people and noise.

Him and her are of two different worlds.

And I'll stay on hers, and never get swayed by a passing comet.