Big Dump

Sand

I found it somewhat irritating to see Thom rolling in the sand – partly because his sweater and pants would be ruined, an unneeded loss, partly because a part of me was cheering him on the inside, the way I was encouraging his caprices when we were younger. I could not take my eyes away, however, from the rupture on his laughing face – his small pointy teeth, the wrinkles around his eyes, his neck, the high-pitched laugh. It was cold on the beach, and lonely, the shops around the pier were wet and closed, the season scared away by an early onset of autumn; it was dreadful, really, but I was there and he was there, and it was disgustingly necessary for us to stay.

We had only walked for about half a mile, not talking about much – rather, starting up conversations heatedly and then finishing them with almost-insults, and cooling off for a while, and starting again. There was a general buzz of the machines on the horizon, cleaning the sand and perhaps re-shaping the shoreline, and Thom looked at them once and said nothing at all, and kept his eyes on the sea; I meant to brush his hand with mine, but it was stuffed in the pocket of his coat, and I’ve never done it before, and I didn’t know what that trip was about.

When we reached the end of the guarded zone and came face to face with a warning sign, Thom made a face and suggested we climb over the rocks and go on. We were not there to swim, after all, he said, but I was still reluctant, and after a few futile attempts at convincing me Thom just laughed, and took of his coat, and fell backward in the sand.

We took two adjacent rooms at a hotel, and a small trail of sand followed his footsteps from the staircase and disappeared under his door. I left my dirty shoes in the hall and sat quietly on my bed until the sun set and it was time to turn on the lights.

During the drive back he was wearing the same sweater and a few grains of sand were left on the seat of his car. I helped him with his bags while he sat on his bed to remove his shoes, and we parted hastily.

At home I found myself imagining the sand infiltrating his house; traveling with his shoes around his yard and spreading over his pillow with his hair; taking a bath, I thought about the sand in his bed, the little scratches on his skin at night. I told myself it was quite hard to get rid of every particle; I imagined that even after the sheets were cleaned and clothes were discarded the sand would still be there, in the corner perhaps, where nobody looks, or on the bottom of his bag stuffed in his closet, or in the yard where he walks barefoot during the summer.

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"Sand" is like "***," but "***">"Sand," but what the hell.