Day 26: Evening

Right, still Day 26

I’m leaving this one without a picture.
Some evenings don’t want to be illustrated. They just need to be written.

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I thought the entry I wrote this morning would be enough.
It wasn’t.
Something’s still moving.
Not loud, but stubborn.
Like sand in a wetsuit.
I have to write it down, otherwise it will stay inside me.

After I finished the last lines, I just lay there.
My skin was almost dry by then,
only damp where the wet towel still clung to me.
Unpleasant.
But I couldn’t bring myself to move.
I stared at the ceiling, counting the small bumps in the plaster.
I don’t know why.

At some point I got up.
Slowly. Like I did earlier today.
I put on lotion.
Not like in the Caribbean
not with that trace of pleasure, of salt on warm skin,
of sunlight still glowing underneath.
But mechanically.
Like a robot.
The lotion was the same.
I wasn’t.

I pulled on sweatpants and a stretched-out shirt.
Ran my hand through my hair, still damp, heavy.
A few strands stuck to my forehead. I pushed them back,
more from reflex than vanity.
I left it as it was.

Strange that I thought of it just then.
The bra.
I had one somewhere with a bit of lace.
As much as I could handle back then.
I bought it with my best friend.
And the matching panties.
She said Luc would like that.

Did she already know?
Because he liked lace on her so much?

I shivered, though it wasn’t cold.
Then pushed the thought away.

I made coffee.
Fresh, this time.
The machine wheezed, as if it was tired too.
I leaned against the counter, waited until it was done,
and took the mug outside to the small terrace.

The sea was visible - not all of it,
but enough to know it was still there.
It glimmered briefly, then went dull again.
I wondered if the sea notices when you need it.
If it gets offended when you put too much into it.
If it resists.

I didn’t really accomplish anything today.
I went shopping, I think.
Or was that yesterday?
I ate an apple.
And half a pack of crackers.
I emptied the dishwasher.
And looked at the bird again.
It’s still wrapped in the cloth.
I don’t know what to do with it.
I can’t bring myself to look.

This afternoon I went for a walk.
Just a short one.
Along the beach.
There were hardly any people.
A man with a dog. Two kids with nets.
I walked slowly.
Not because I wanted to.
Because my body decided to.

I picked up a flat stone.
And put it back.
I didn’t try to surf.
Didn’t even think about it.

I thought about writing to Luc.
I didn’t.

I came home early.
It’s just after eight now.
And I feel like the day is an empty plate
with only one drop of sauce left on it.

But I’m writing.
So I’m here.
Not entirely.
But more than this morning.

And maybe that’s enough.

“It’s not a beautiful evening,
not a dramatic one.

Just real.

And sometimes that’s all I can offer.”