Ocean II

He pulls into the parking lot of Native Well Ocean Beach just a little past 11:30. The crinkle crackle of the sand spinning through the treads of his tires wakes him up a bit. He's ended up here enough times in his life that the drive over becomes a monotonous series of twists and turns through grey streets, numbing him to the sensation of the road. But now, the sand that has spread onto the asphalt reminds him where he is. The pale yellow of the moon is neutralized by the all-absorbing blacktop and it won't be until he gets to the sand and the water that he'll be able to see his own feet. But for now, the grit beneath his shoes holds promise of the tide. The power of the ebbing waters seem to carry him off with the algae and the swirls of sand.
Like feeling for stairs in the dark he almost falls as the parking lot abruptly gives way to the eternity of sand. Every step is a journey in and of itself, pulling him closer to the ocean - the crashing waves slowly drowning out the passing cars on the parkway bridge a mile or so down the stretch. The moon seems to burst out, bouncing off of the earth triumphantly, except for the small patches of black sand. "Fallen stars," she called those patches - little bits of iron clinging to the granules of silica. She had a name for everything, a catch phrase for explaining away books of information. He can't seem to make out the start of the water so he gets on his hands and knees, hoping his hands hit the scrolls of water from the crashing waves before his pants get wet. But it's the spray that hits him first, sticking to his face and chapping his lips with its saltiness. He rocks himself backwards and sits, his eyes acclimating towards the horizon, where the dark blue of the sky collides violently with the black of the the ocean. The water seems broken only by little white spurts of life and power, clashing with the void that forms between the sky and the water. He thinks that it must be that void where the sting and the cold of the water is emanating from. The moon sweeps across the sky and emerges from the crowd of colorless clouds. It pushes away the void and installs an empty distinction between water and air in its place.
He can remember, now, the sound of her voice. She's trying to coax him to go out to dinner. Her voice rolls out of her throat and down the curves of her body, echoing through the valleys and ridges formed by the white dress she always seems to be wearing. "There's a cute little bistro in town," she offers. Her head cocked to one side, she makes some joke about how locals get their mail there they spend so much time there. As he closes his eyes he can feel her pulling herself closer to him, offering that maybe tonight, just tonight, they could just stay in. It could just be them. He remembers how perfectly the shape of her lips fit his. "Oh god," he seemed to want to say as her eyes locked into his - their dark brown were endless.
For a minute, the spit of the ocean is hers. The crashing waves are leaning towards him, embracing him. The current pulling at his feet becomes her body. He's in her arms as she pulls him out towards the void. She keeps him in her, as she hisses and screams in delight. He's working through her, now, as the water pulls across his legs. The crests of the waves seem to grow more and more as he fights against the riptide pulling across his waist. She's trying to turn him over, trying to twist him inside out. He flails and screams back at the pounding waves and for a minute the whole ocean seems to freeze in time, the two bodies held in perfect equilibrium. But he realizes all to quickly that what seems to be recognition - what he wishes is embarrassment - has turned to contempt. He gives in and swims to the bottom. The moon shoots in beams through the surface and gives him enough light to navigate grabbing onto the bottom. The sand swirls around his hands and his lungs burn. His release floats him up towards the surface. His weakness revealed, he turns over and lets her hands run across his body. He can remember, now, the manifesto that hung in the air between them. She was tired of this, sick of that, worn out of everything. And he can remember, now, the blank stare towards to the print of a Jackson Pollack she had in her one-bedroom apartment. The chaos of the paint seemed empty without the texture - without knowing how much hit the canvas and at what time.
He collapses back towards the fallen stars. The waves that crash on the beach shoot through him, blending into a symphony of cacophony until he is numb enough to feel like he's floating a foot above the sand. Until nothing but the magnetism of the iron keeps him from flying away. Until the ocean crashes, and roars, and rolls her away from him. Until he can't tell how much is hitting him and at what time.