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The door to Sarah’s house swung open as she slowly stumbled out the door, exhausted by the last couple hours. Her husband watched her walk out the door with calm frustration welling up within him. She felt the cathartic regret that could come after a screaming match wash over her, and she decided to stare at the sea.
She sat on the edge of the shore, just far enough from the waves so they wouldn’t get her shoes wet. She watched the foamy dark tide roll in, disperse, and recede, only to crash in all over again. The endlessly loud noise of the ocean flooded her ears. The moon hung above the sea, not nearly full yet, with only a tiny shaving of a shadow on the edge. Sarah looked at the dark crescent, the moon was just barely peeking beyond the clouds, but it was somehow brighter than usual. She took a sip from the mug in her hand, the coffee didn’t taste very good, she thought she put too much milk.
She’d been drinking coffee since a young age. Her parents were always bustling around in the morning, getting ready for work, and so there was almost always a pot of coffee ready. One day, she asked for a cup out of curiosity, her parents probably expected her to find it too bitter, but found she loved the flavour. It became part of her morning ritual, she would pour the coffee into a mug, and take out to the beach, to watch the waves while she drank.
Sarah had always adored staring at the sea. Adore felt like too soft a word, there was some compulsion deep within her to do it. Her parents lived close to the beach growing up, in a similarly run-down shack. On slow summer days, she would sit right outside her house and spend hours at a time just counting the waves. Her parents didn’t own a television, and the library was too far to use too often. Her father had a single computer, in their office, her time on it was extremely limited. So most days, she would take her father's portable radio and just stare at the water. On the weekends, maybe a boat would go by.
Sometimes, she would walk along the coast for a change, but despite loving the water, she never liked how the sand felt beneath her feet. Regardless of if she wore shoes or sandals, or if the sand was wet or dry, it never felt comfortable. She preferred to resign herself to sitting and watching the waves until the sun set.
Something about the waves brought her a sense of fullness, like a warm meal after a long day. If she went too long without it, she wouldn’t feel like herself, she’d feel tired and sluggish in a way coffee couldn’t cure. She often stared out and imagined what it would be like to be part of the sea, not just as a single fish or wave, but as the whole body of water. Carrying an ecosystem of animals and vegetation within her. A cycle of living, killing and eating flowing through her at all times.
On nights like these, where she couldn’t sleep, staring at the sea helped calm her nerves. Either way, she didn’t want to face her husband again for a little while longer. He never liked staring at the waves, he found something depressing about it. He always complained about the bugs, the smell, and getting his shoes wet.
In stark comparison, her first boyfriend loved the moon almost as much as she loved the shore. On nights where she watched the sea, he often came with her, they would just sit there in silence. Even though he rarely said a word, just being there made her feel better. He had this short, dark, spiky hair that made him stand out in a room. He wore nothing but black shirts with various band logos on them, He’d often stick to wearing a certain band’s shirts for months at a time, he cycled through them like seasons. She first saw him at a party, surrounded by his loud friends, who all dressed the same as him. She didn’t approach him just yet though.
She doesn’t entirely know what drew her to him. Maybe she just wanted to talk to someone about music, none of her friends had any interest in music beyond what was currently popular. A few days later, instead of sitting near her usual friends, she sat near him in the school cafeteria, wearing a shirt for a Japanese band she liked. She was sporting a self-printed T-shirt for their latest album at the time. The cover depicted a couple looking at each other mournfully on the beach. He approached her asking about the band, and they hit it off immediately. He was intrigued by the image on the cover.
Later on, they listened to the album in her room. She had a friend burn it illegally to a disc she could play on her father’s cd player. She was sitting up on her bed, her back against the wall. He was settled into a beanbag chair as they both sipped coffee out of white mugs. Her boyfriend didn’t seem to drink coffee often, usually only at her place, but when he did, he only ever took it black. She always wondered if he did that to impress her. He knew she liked coffee after all.
When she told her friends about the guy, they gave her odd looks. None of them could fully understand her interest in him. Not that she could fully explain it either, her emotions had an odd way of sneaking up on her like that. She often didn’t know she liked someone until she’d already made several attempts talking to them. All she felt was this magnetism towards that person, but it often took piecing together her own actions to figure out how she’s feeling. Although, she was able to better figure him out on each subsequent date they went on.
Of course, he wanted to have sex with her. It started off slowly, they’d be kissing in his car, or in his bedroom, and his hand would sneak up her leg as if she wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t until he started doing this that she started thinking about sex beyond her imagination. In those circumstances she’d try to de-escalate things, push his hand away, break the kiss, but those were only pushing the problem until later.
After one of these dates she was lying in her bed, thinking about having sex with him. The idea filled her with as much desire as it did disgust. On one hand, she was curious, who wasn’t at that age? She had thought about having sex with him before, but on the other hand, there was this sort of stress that overtook her. These cycles of feeling like she was making too much out of it, or not giving it enough gravity, conflicting ideas repeated by teachers, parents, and media.
The idea of sex as this warm intimate act was the part that interested her. If she pictured it in the right way, it would become this abstract dance. But then she’d be talking to a guy or watching a film, and she’d be hit by reality. The idea of skin and flesh heating up and oozing into eachother, the inherently animalistic nature of the whole thing disgusted her. It didn’t feel right that bodies could do that, let alone hers. All the while, she felt this ashamed itch at the back of her brain for it.
As these thoughts consumed her, her breath would quicken as these thoughts would lurk more and more in her mind. Her body felt like it was sinking into mud. This large beast-like entity was watching her. If she started thinking too long about sex, it felt like it was breathing down her neck.
She talked it over with her friends. Most of them didn’t really see the big deal, sex wasn’t anything to agonize over, you either decide to do it, or don’t. Finally one night, she decided to let him do it. Admittedly, a bit of anticipation and excitement built up in her.
After a bit of talking and a lot of kissing, they settled themselves in his room on a night where his parents were out of the house. She was lying on her back, while he was stationed directly above her, looking down. He placed his cold, sticky hand on the upper side of her hip, firmly under her breast, as if he was afraid to touch her. With a bit of effort, he lined himself up to her opening, and slowly pushed in.
“Uh, are you ready?” He said, as he looked to the side of her, unable to make eye contact.
“Yeah, I think so.” she replied
Slowly he pushed himself into her, creating an odd, but not entirely unfamiliar sensation within her. She looked at his face hovering above hers, his eyes shut closed. He couldn’t even look at her. Immediately, that anxiety from before welled up within her. She swallowed a thick lump in her throat, before feeling her eyes water up.
He pulled back bit by bit, his eyes still shut tightly. She used her fingers to rub the tears out of her eyes, as she felt even more coming. He pushed back in, causing the feeling to get even heavier. At the bottom of her stomach, she felt this tiny pit form, not one of pleasure but of this hollow ball of anxiety, building in her stomach. Finally she just covered her eyes with her left forearm. She felt her breathing get heavier and heavier. The sensation stopped.
“Sarah.” Her boyfriend spoke out. She didn’t respond. “Sarah, are you okay?”
She felt his hand around her wrist. He peeled her arm back gently, like she was made of sugar glass, only to see her red, teary, eyes. He was staring down at her now, she was overcome with embarrassment. She turned her head to the left to avert her gaze. Between heavy breaths, she muttered out:
“I don’t think I can do this today.”
“It’s- It’s fine.” He responded.
“I know you wanted to, I just can’t.”
“It’s fine.” He replied with a slight disappointment in his voice.
He pulled himself out of her, leaving a cold, slick, empty feeling behind. She’d wished he’d done it slower. She could barely see his face through the tears. He shuffled aside a little bit, but laid his head on the pillow next to hers and lowered his body. He just lied there on top of her, half his torso was settled on the bed, the other half was on her. His right arm settled across her body. His head rested on the same pillow as hers, staring off the bed. Slowly, the hollow ball in her stomach dissipated. She stared up at the popcorn-ceiling, trying to make out each of the individual points. The only noise was a metal fan's whir, as it swiveled back and forth in the corner of the room. She blinked, another tear came out of her eye, and for a moment she felt safe.
Eventually, on another night, she did have sex with him, she could barely remember the experience.
A shallow wave hit the edge of her shoe, it was time to move. Sarah picked herself up off the ground and shook the sand off of her nightgown. She walked vaguely away from her home, in whatever direction would take her. Spread apart along the beach, were a bunch of bars looking to make money. All Sarah could think about was how she needed to be anywhere else, and a drink wouldn’t hurt either . It must’ve been past 1 am by now, something had to be open.
After walking a bit more, she came across a tiny hole-in-the-wall tiki bar bustling with noise and a handful of people. Some sort of light jazz she didn’t recognize played over the speakers, the guitar’s repetitive meandering melody was insufferable. The singer’s vocals, barely audible due to the speakers, sounded indistinct and murky. The song brought an idea of jazz, without any of the substance. She usually liked this kind of music, maybe she just wasn’t in the mood. She couldn't remember the last time she just sat down and listened to a whole album. After being in the dark for so long, the warm orange light from the interior hurt her eyes a bit.
At the back were two men surrounded by dozens of bottles and glasses, laughing hysterically about something she’d never know. They were both wearing flashy suits, but she knew enough about clothes to tell that the materials were cheap. It looked like a costume, more than it did an outfit.
She sat down at the bar, far away from gentlemen, and in front of a bartender, who immediately greeted her and took her order. It’d been a while since she had a drink, usually she only drank wine during special occasions, not that she liked it very much. It’s just what they always had around during events and dinners.
“A White Russian please. Uh, with milk instead of cream.”
Within a minute, the glass was wordlessly placed in front of her by The Bartender. It tasted perfect, like the bartender pulled the subconscious image of a White Russian straight out of her mind and served it. She took a sip. It was delicious. She heard the rustling of glass behind her, unconsciously, she looked back at the two men. The bartender spoke up.
"They're not supposed to smoke in here."
"Hm?"
"They're not supposed to smoke in here. It's against city regulations. I've told them like three times now. But there's no one else here anyways, so if you don't mind…" The Bartender trailed off.
She hadn't even noticed the smell of cigarettes. Sarah didn't smoke herself, but her husband did, and many people she knew throughout her twenties did too. She got so used to the smell of cigarettes, and the sight of one in someone's hands it just blended into the background. It became as noticeable as the glasses on a passerby's face. Something about this made her feel small, like she wasn't fully attuned to what was going on around her.
"It's fine. I'm getting out of here soon, anyways." Sarah responded, taking a long sip of her drink after.
The Bartender raised an eyebrow. “Is there somewhere you gotta be at 3am?”.
“Yeah, my husband’s place, I shouldn’t stick around for too long.”
The Bartender’s tone hardened a bit. “So what are you doing here that you can’t do at your husband’s place?”
“Drink. My husband can’t stand the taste or smell of alcohol, we have a couple wines in the house, but I don’t like wine, and they’re really meant for dinner parties anyways. I needed a drink, so I came here.” She picked up the glass, and drank until she finished it. She lightly slammed it back on the bar counter and pushed it towards The Bartender with a nod. The Bartender wordlessly refilled the glass right in front of her. Sarah gave a defeated sigh as she watched the milk mix with the brown liqueur in the cup. “Also, we had a fight.”
“Ah.” The Bartender replied. An uncomfortable silence followed. She finished pouring and passed the cup back to Sarah. The patron didn’t reply and took a deep sip of the newly-poured glass. “Would you want to talk about it?” She put the cup back down on the bar.
“I shouldn’t.” They both sat silently for a moment. As silently as they could, given that the two men in the bar had moved onto playing darts and laughing hysterically. “Well, it's a lot of things. Our fight tonight was about how he just wouldn’t listen to me anymore. He barely absorbs anything I say anymore. Whenever I start talking at dinner, I can see his eyes go blank, as he just nods along silently.”
Sarah looked away from the bartender, feeling the stress of the topic finally weigh down on her. A loud thud hit the dartboard out of her view. “But most of all, I think I’m just bored with him. I just- I don’t know, I don’t think I’m happy here. It's fine, I’m not actively upset, but I feel like I’ve missed out on something. My mind says to stay, it's stable, I could finish books and write forever like this, but I don’t know.”
“So why don’t you think about it for a while, stay in a hotel or something, make a decision, and go with your gut?” The bartender replied.
“I don’t know.” Sarah looked into her glass, and saw the brown liquid swirl on its own. “I don’t think I have a gut anymore. It feels like whatever used to be there was ripped out of me years ago, now its just… empty.” She raised the glass and took a sip. She felt the cold burn of the ice cube against her lip. The bartender put her right hand on the bar and looked at Sarah’s face with a weary expression.
“It’s there.” The bartender lightly raised her hand and pointed at Sarah’s stomach. “You’re here, you’re telling me about your life, aren’t you? Seems like you got plenty of guts to me." She brought her hand back down. Sarah didn’t entirely know what to do with that comment, it made her feel a bit more grounded.
“I-, thanks for your reassurance, I guess. You must be a good listener, I find it easy to talk to you. I don’t talk to many people about these things.”
“Well, what else is a bartender for?” she chuckled. “I’ll be honest, a lot of people come in here ready to spill their problems, it's just something I got used to after a while. Not that I mind, of course, ” Her calmness radiated towards Sarah, she couldn’t help but envy the bartender’s attitude and disposition. If only she had the right words to calm someone down.
Across the bar, a glass shattered into pieces, the noise startled Sarah, and she twisted her head to see what was happening. A man in a vibrant red suit was strangling another man in a black suit. The man in red was yelling.
“Give me my fucking money!”
The other man made a crackle with what was left of his windpipe.
“I’ll fucking kill you!”
The red suited man pulled out a knife from the holster around his belt. He held on to the man’s throat tightly, pulled back his knife-hand and stabbed deep into the other man’s stomach. The man’s lungs let out a shaky groan. The red suited man’s grip loosened as he pulled the knife out, letting the other man a second to catch his breath before plunging the knife in again and again. The man tried to breathe, letting out only a crackle in between the wild, repeated stabs to his stomach. Blood jutted out after each entry and re-entry painting both men and their surroundings even more red. The black-suited man tried to hold on for as long as possible but slowly went limp. The-red suited man didn’t seem to notice. Sarah couldn’t look away. The Bartender stared on with a face of annoyance.
“Oh god, not again.” The Bartender miserated, “I told the bouncer not to let that guy in again. I knew I shouldn’t have served them.”
Finally, the red-suited man stepped back and let the body flop over to his right. The body fell, got caught on a highchair and knocked it over as both hit the ground, causing more blood to spill all over the floor, not just from the man’s wounds but also his mouth. Sarah couldn’t say anything at all.
The bartender pulled a wired phone out from behind the bar and held it between her head and right shoulder. She punched in a couple of numbers on the landline below, not enough for a full phone number.
“Yeah, it's Mary again.”
Sarah heard some low voice on the other end of the line, she was too far away to fully make out the words.
“Yeah, Mike did his thing again.”
The gruff voice on the other end of the line got louder. Sarah had no idea how the bartender could stay so calm in such a situation. She looked back at the dead body and realised she needed to get out of there.
“Yeah you’re gonna have to send the guys in again…” The bartender said with a depressed tone, she looked back over at the . “I’ll keep him under control for now.” She placed the phone back on the cradle, hanging it up. The Bartender looked back over to Sarah’s spot at the bar, but she was gone, with only a 20$ bill, and an empty mug of coffee in her place.
Sarah was back outside, walking by the waves. She had to find her way back home in the pitch black night. Though she knew if she kept walking by the coastline she’d get back there eventually. She kept playing the incident back in her mind, it wasn’t a conscious decision. She just couldn’t stop thinking about every detail, down to the thud the body made as it hit the floor. A stray wave of foamy water hit her ankle. The wave dispersed on the shore and slipped back into the ocean.
Slowly, the ocean will consume the earth, sinking everything below it. It won’t happen within her lifetime, but she was sure of it. Same as she was sure that the sun would expand and swallow the earth in its heat. In both cases, humanity will be long dead but life won’t be. While cities can be washed away through the waters of time, As long as one solitary cell survives it can multiply, and start again.
She opened the door to her husband’s house with a creak. He was still sitting there, at the kitchen table reading a book. He turned his head at the noise.
“I think I need time away from you. I don't want to be with you anymore.” she firmly said.