Farewell To Summer Love
By Lyn Cacha
The night was just coming to life, highlighting a moon crescent that was perfectly incomplete. There she was alone, standing on the edge of the shore, holding on to a half empty bottle of beer like it was a prop. She could hear the waves crashing in and out on the water while a myriad of diamonds bounced off foamy waves, sparkling in the moon glow for a split second only to get swept away by waves crashing at the shore.
Obviously, she was trying to ignore the maddening monotony of those stupid love songs that were being played at a nearby bar that sold cheap brandy.
For a moment she was contented with her solitude but then out of the darkness, save for the lone moonlight, was him, watching her from a near distance. She noticed right away that he was walking towards her. She quickly returned her icy gaze back to the swaying waves.
“I—I’m… sorry—” he managed to mumble.
She turned her head and met his gaze. “Just forget about it…” her voice trailed off into gasps.
And for him, it seemed to be something so easy to say. He meant well, she knew, but words meant little to a worried mind. He attempted nothing more however, and she was thankful for that at least. Kind words were enough on his part. He could do no more harm than that, she thought.
“I know—that I’ve done you wrong,” he said.
“Try not to think about it,” she said again.
There was a subtle resignation in her eyes, as if to say that it was fine to be unloved, unwanted, and that it was OK to have nothing.
Her words were like music to his ears, a single sentence but the pitch, the lilts, the cadences, and the pronunciation made him feel how good it was to finally hear her speak after a pregnant silence.
But softness lacked the weight of any true resolve.
“I heard that you’re leaving. I just can’t –”
“Can’t what? I’ve been patient with you for too long. It’s time I move on,” she said.
“And what do you suggest I do then?” He finally asked with frustration.
He did not expect an answer from her because it was a foolish question to begin with. Although it would’ve been nice if she had, he thought. If only her words could be kind enough to whisk away his problems and maybe a few of her own.
“You’ll be fine without me,” she said softly. “All along those little lies invaded the spaces in our relationship. I get buried with every crashing doubt and sink every time you make a fool out of me. And I guess with the end of this season, it’s just the right time to end this,” she added.
She looked intently at the direction of the old beacon that was still guiding the fishing ships. She was still holding the now half-full bottle of beer. He noticed that she seemed well that night, her sun-kissed skin gleaming, her eyes twinkling with the sparkle they had had long before they were lovers.
For a brief fraction of a moment, she felt a renewed sense of focus on her being. She felt like an early seafarer, searching the stars for answers.
“I must go home, need to pack,” her voice playing in the wind, telling him that all was right and as it should be in. So she walked past him leaving him alone on the edge of the shore.
As for him, the thought still lingered like illness, stinging and seeping into the cracks of his already hurting heart. Tears were forming behind his eyes. She felt it too, he knew, but “don’t think about it” was best left merely as kind words, and nothing more.