I first see her
crawling across the sand
toward the water’s edge
a game? If so
where are the others?
Or if not
what?
a girl
not a child
crawling
red shorts and a red T-shirt
shiny black hair
curving in to end at her jawline
crawling a few feet
then tossing that shiny black hair
back from her eyes
to see where she’s going?
bringing to mind an African savannah
her crawl almost stealthy
like hunting
her legs crooked
misshapen
she couldn’t walk
Or even stand
Reaching the water’s edge
sitting awkwardly
she turns
dragging her bent legs around in front of her
so she could sit
half in the water half out
facing the river and the islands
staying that way a long time
I lose interest
go back to my book
[I always bring a book to the beach
sometimes I look up
he beach is crowded
couples with kids or without
teenagers being rowdy
trying out their recently-acquired
grownup bodies
The following Saturday
there she is again
the girl in red
crawling towards the shore
black hair tossing knees dragging in the sand
no one else noticing her
or pretending not to notice
as with homeless kids on the street
Because then what?
This time she stops halfway
hunkering down on the sand
plucking up handfuls of it
letting it slip through her fingers
Such a lonely place to be
surrounded by bodies and noise and laughter
but alone
ignored
seeming oblivious
and utterly content
Could this really be true?
Abandoning her game
continuing her laborious crawl
to the shore
to the water’s edge facing out
resuming her sand-sifting
I feel then
a need to know her
Or at least
see her face
A body has shape and movement
but without a face the question
‘Who are you’ has no meaning
laying my book
face down on the sand
I begin my covert journey
toward the pebbly shore
To cool my feet?
It’s something everybody here does
Wondering what am I doing
who are you crippled girl in red
moving laboriously with such precise purpose
what kind of life do you lead
And why do I burn to know these things
know you
what are you to me
What can I know?
How can I approach you?
Will I frighten you?
Too late for questions
I keep moving
my attention fixed
on the exact line
where water and sand meet
I walk the line
Here the gravel is uncovered
by the constant wave action
harder on the feet
picking my way gingerly past her
seeming to ignore her like all the others
then turning back as though looking to see where I’d come from
Where had I come from?
Where was I going?
Now on her left gazing right into her face
her right eye hidden behind a jet-black veil
her left eye fixed on the sand
still digging into it
until all at once she looks up
right into my eyes
I stand riveted to the spot
staring into her left eye
locked
unable to look away
casual escape no longer feasible
We stay this way interminably
then suddenly her voice
deep and husky
‘Hi’
A few awkward words later
I sit beside her
half in the river and half out
a safe distance away
We talk and I come to know
something about her life
her family
brother and sisters
two of each
where they live
how she earns an allowance
‘picking up’ she calls it
she understands about money
sometimes filching it
from her mother’s purse
who knew and who probably
felt pride at her daughter’s boldness
I tell her my name
and ask hers
‘Angel’
For a moment
I stop breathing
When at last
we run out of words
I rise to leave
and passing behind her
gently touch the top her head
goodbye/I’m sorry/be well/maybe we’ll
I never saw her again
They told me it had been a mistake
Even said it was creepy
and told me to stay away
How could I know
what she had felt?
Relieved?
Abandoned?
I chose the safer way
stay away
so that in time
we could both forget
I never will
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MoBock
Retired professional actor and playwright, now turning to writing short stories.
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