At The Beach, Later That Afternoon
“Wow, it’s nice out here,” Artem says, looking out at the ocean, sprawled out before us like a meadow made of blues and greens.
“Nice?” I exclaim in astonishment. “It’s much more than nice, you Neanderthal.”
He laughs. “I forget how much you love the sea.”
I breathe in the fresh ocean air. I can taste the salt on my tongue.
“It makes you feel like you’re in another world,” I explain. “Like, for as long as you’re standing in the sand with water at your feet, you’re free.”
“Do you feel so trapped?” he asks.
I take his hand. “Not anymore.”
He leans in and presses his lips against mine. So soft that, for a moment, I can barely feel him.
Then the kiss deepens and my only desire is to press myself against him.
But Phoenix gurgles between us, strapped to my chest with the yellow blanket that is so sentimental to me now.
I break away and look down at our son. Artem runs his hand through Phoenix’s dark hair. It’s starting to curl at the edges a little and neither of us can stop touching the tiny ringlets.
“There’s no one around,” Artem says, looking around the abandoned beach.
“There are bigger ocean towns that attract the tourists,” I explain. “The locals are used to the ocean. They’re only out here when it’s warm enough to swim in.”
“I’m not complaining,” he says. “I like having this place all to ourselves.”
“Me too. Just the three of us.”
We hold hands as we continue on down the beach. We walk a few feet away from the shoreline, but I can feel the chill of the Pacific soaking into the soft sand.
As we walk further, we lose sight of the boardwalk, and the buildings gives way to trees. Once we’ve cleared the town, it really does feel like the ocean belongs to us.
“You could swim by the beach every day if we lived here,” I tell him with a nudge.
Artem doesn’t react to that at all. I know enough to know that that means he doesn’t want me to know what he’s feeling.
We fall into silence. I try to picture him living in this town with me.
And I can’t see it.
The picture is hazy at best. None of it feels natural.
Because Artem is not meant for a quiet life by the ocean.
Because you’re trying to make him something he’s not.
The thoughts are uncomfortable. I shove them away.
“How’s the little solnishka?” Artem asks after a while. He gazes fondly at Phoenix’s dark head of hair.
“Fast asleep,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for that.”
I laugh. “Why?”