by A. Kanungo

While sitting on the beach, my thoughts wander back to B. He was here with me last year and despite our disastrous trip, I wanted to return to this place though now the idea seems ill-conceived. It was supposed to be a good reminder I’m better off without him instead, I feel lonely and isolated. A solo vacation presupposes singleness but I’m a woman in the top half of my thirties, so I reassure myself being here alone isn’t tragic. Yet.

I opted for a one-piece swimsuit today. It makes my tan lines less noticeable but it also attracts less attention from the young mothers I see everywhere. With their fingers intertwined in a husband or child’s, they take hurried glances at my skirt or shoes, probably age-inappropriate by their standards. Their life choices are easily affirmed in this place that is half-time-share, half-hotel, and made for families. With group rates, couple’s massages, and other incentives to travel in packs.

Here at the beach, where locals and tourists swarm around in adjacent crowds, it’s fairer ground. I skip the towel and let my thighs balloon out against the sand. The ocean is powerful today, its rhythm deceiving. Waves crash onto the beach as if in slow motion and the undertow still grasps when the next one smacks the shore. These conditions don’t stop the stringy-haired surfers and observing them keeps me from dwelling on the romantic milieu of a beach getaway. Some emerge from a turquoise tunnel victorious, while most are chucked from their boards when the white tide slaps over them, somersaulting their bodies back to shore. Whatever the outcome, they flop back onto their bellies and race past the break, cueing up for the next ride. This relationship with the sea is dysfunctional at best, but there’s a dignity to it even I can see.

Now and then, I turn my head to sneak glances at a couple playing Frisbee. They’re further down the beach so they can’t see me staring. I admire their synchronicity, possibly from years of playing together. The woman wipes sweat from her brow, then flings the red disc to her partner, who catches it between his palms. Athleticism must be a prerequisite with these two, something shared that’s essential to their relationship. I tried to make hiking the thing with B but turns out, I’m not very good at it and I spent most of the time alone. “Hiking is just walking,” B had said, right before he dusted me on the trail. By the time I reached the end, it was dark and the parking lot was empty. The only light came from B’s cell phone, illuminating his pointy features while he waited for me in the car.

 I look up to see the couple’s Frisbee curving in my direction at an impossible arc. It lands near my rose-colored toes and the man is there within seconds. His eyes are covered by reflective aviators and there’s no way to tell if his smile is for me. I flash one anyway, one I’ve practiced in the mirror: exposed teeth, with my head tilted slightly to the left to highlight my dimple. The man lifts his sunglasses revealing aquamarine eyes. The same color as the sea. “How are you, love?” he asks, in a British accent. “My partner and I are going to dinner soon. We’d love some company.” The woman jogs up beside him, a slow suggestive smile slides across her face. The man presents a similar one accompanied by a wink. Internally, I chuckle at my luck, one year late. B would have loved this. An encounter like this could have saved our trip.

It would be as easy as standing up and taking their hands. What would it be like to go off with this couple? It’s a thought in my head that’s not quite mine. Afterward, when I’m back in my hotel room, alone again, who would I tell?

I raise my sunglasses to meet their eyes and shake my head.

The couple jogs away and I turn back to the horizon. The sun has begun to sink into the ocean and a thick sheet of peach-colored clouds hover over the water. Hats and sunglasses come off as people pile up their belongings around me. A light sweat sits on my skin and I inch forward until shallow water swirls around my chest and salty splashes seep into my mouth. In the fading light, I shiver but I’m in no hurry. Maybe I’ll dine somewhere, sit at the bar while pretending to watch TV. Probably, I’ll heat my leftovers from yesterday’s dinner. The last time I was here, B and I learned how to make authentic pork carnitas. We’d been the only non-couple couple in the cooking class. It wasn’t advertised as for partners but the others presented themselves holding hands or occasionally touching lips. B stood with arms crossed. He thought I’d misrepresented him. See, B doesn’t get the difference between lovers and friends. According to him, we were only ever the latter, with benefits. I thought vacationing together predicated more than “benefits.” It was a point we could never agree on. At least I learned something new and last night I replicated the recipe. I slow-cooked the seasoned pork for three hours, then crisped the edges by broiling it in the oven. With a pile of pork on a fresh corn tortilla, I heaped homemade salsa verde and avocado on top. In the kitchen, I opened my mouth as wide as it could go and sunk my teeth in. I ate the whole thing standing, letting juice from the pork and salsa drip down my chin and splatter onto the floor. It will be even better tonight.

Image by Koshy George via Pexels