two horses in a field. a tall and short coffee. a pair of ducks bobbing in the stream.“It’s us, that’s you and me!”, we say. And then we both smile.
I’ve tried to write about you before, but yesterday on the beach, I finally understood how.
My eyes glazed over the lines of that book-the one you’re probably sick of hearing about-but you never seem to mind my rambling.
I bent down and let the soft waves coax a jellyfish into my palm. I held it up to you, and now that I think back, I stood there just as transluscent as the animal. The beach was busy, but I was still as the water lapped around my ankles. My fake tanner had washed off in the salt-water, and I was pale and exposed in my bikini. I must’ve asked you twenty times if I looked too pale. You never flinched, just smiled.
We held hands walking back to the car-the one I made you re-park, because I’m always afraid of inconveniencing anyone but me. I overthought the way I talked, the bag bumping between us, the ease I couldn’t quite feel- until you laughed and pulled me closer.
Yesterday, like so many days, gave you another glimpse into my imperfections. I’m not a perfect carefree person. I stand in the cold water suffering and shivering, knowing full well that diving in headfirst is the only way through. Still, you wait for me a few feet ahead, brushing seaweed from my path. I eventually join you, and though I swim somewhat ungracefully, you don’t seem to mind.
And somehow, that makes all the difference.
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