We walk briskly down the beach. It’s December, freezing, thirty-something. My sneakered feet are bricks of ice. I ball my hands inside my mittens, try to match his strides. The tide surrounds us, recklessly spreading over patches of sand like liquid fingers of death. He hops over pools of surf like he’s sixteen again. I attempt an awkward leap on my good knee. He cheers and I’m delighted I stuffed that glossy brochure of Orchard Grove Senior Living in today’s trash.
A woman with a golden retriever stops to chat with my husband. Women always blush when my husband enters a room. I’m amused, slightly starstruck. My best friend is secretly smitten. Hints I should own at least one black cocktail dress. I tell her I’m happy in my thrift store flannels. That my husband doesn’t care for girly girls, thank you very much. She nods, leaves a copy of Vogue on my nightstand.
I read the twenty-five ways to keep my love fresh and shiny, about astrological soulmates and sex toys. Nothing about the glue, like raw honey, that binds us, mends all our broken parts into one.
When I was twelve I fought with my mother hours before she jumped in front of a train. I know a guilty heart can fizzle, drop in dried clumps at your feet. He knows when to peel off my sweat-soaked pajamas, draw me a bath, or bring me cocoa with peppermint schnapps. And when he moans, dreaming of the war, or stares at his book, not turning a single page, I put Chubby on the turntable, and we twist until he finds his smile.
We never had children. Growing up too fast can do that. Instead I get him a baseball glove for Christmas. He buys me tap shoes and a Goofy hat from Disney World.
Finally we arrive on the other side of the beach, bask in a patch of sun. That’s when he picks me up, pretends to toss me into the ocean. When I stop shrieking he sets me down and we stand side by side, holding hands, watch the foamy waves. I gently tap his head with mine, point to our shadows in the sand. We’re two powerful giants, glued together, legs extra long and spindly.
Phyllis Rittner loves all things flash. Her work can be found in Fictive Dream, Emerge Literary Journal, Portrait of New England, Wrong Turn Lit (Best Microfiction nominee), and others. She can be found on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/phyllis.rittner
