Just the Two of Us
by Ronnie Smith
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: On a holiday beach, a wife considers what her marriage has become.
_____________________________________________________________________
The beach is crowded.
Young couples, families, single people hoping not to be for much longer and old couples like us who might not have much longer, period. Well, when I say ‘like us’ I mean that not all of them are like us. Some are still talking to each other, I know that for a fact. I can see their mouths moving as they look at each other.
Yes, they look at each other too. The noise they make seems to be far off in the distance, a buzzing, a disturbance struggling to pass through the very hot air just above the sand.
Next to me there is silence. There’s been silence from the person who occupies the space next to me for around ten years now and do you know the funny thing? Every minute of those ten years I’ve been expecting the silence to end and for things to get back to normal, waiting for the sound to return. Even just one genuine burst of non-ironic laughter. I still hope.
I ask myself sometimes, why do I do this, why do I put myself through this ridiculous, endless…? I don’t even know what to call it. What I mean is why do I stubbornly refuse to accept that this, the silence, is normal?
It’s far too hot and really uncomfortable under the dead grass shade thing that we have to sit under. I’m sweating under my sun hat and I can’t concentrate on my book. Sometimes the sweat runs into my eyes and then I have to take my glasses off to wipe the sweat away and then I have to find another clean dry tissue to wipe the greasy finger prints off my glasses. And I have to make sure I don’t drop my book on the sand all the while. Beach holidays are not as relaxing as they tell you. The cruise last year was just the same, except it was the wind instead of the heat. You had to hold on to everything with all your strength just to stop it flying away into the ocean. Gone forever.
I suggest a walk along the shore, on the sand, with our feet in the shallow water at the edge. I like that. He gets up and sets off, without speaking of course, and without asking me what direction I want to go in. I follow, about five or six yards behind as usual, as though we measured it years ago and agreed. Defendable space they call it, a safe distance, our demilitarized zone.
You know, I remember the last time we held hands. I remember where and when, it’s so clear in my mind. I can still feel him, his strong fingers and the roughness of his palm. I wonder how he feels now. I wonder if his skin feels the same or if it has softened with retirement. If I was able to catch up maybe I could dare to take a chance and find out right now but no, he might have a stroke. I still feel that ache sometimes, you know? I don’t think he does.
The breeze from the sea freshens my face and seems to release the tension from every part of my body. The tiny lapping waves wash my feet and I look out at the empty fishing boats dozing gently on the water, so blue and tranquil.
I fall further behind as I take time to talk to a child working diligently on a sand castle type construction project. One plastic bucket, a spade and time on a beach. It’s so easy to be happy in solitude when all your expectations are met.
I look up, at his sagging back pressing down on his legs that remain permanently bent at the knees these days. It’s strange how our bodies become ill-defined, irregular and asymmetrical. My God! We both look like half-empty canvas shopping bags. Our lives may have been too comfortable and it’s simply true that we stopped looking for challenges early on. No long walks, no new adventures like horse riding or bungee jumping and we even stopped going to concerts. The couch, the newspapers and the TV took over and we sunk into that crushing normality, that quick-sand of comfort. I suppose that’s why he eventually stopped talking, to me at least. We didn’t create anything to talk about, we shared a life of literally nothing.
Back from the water’s edge there is the mass of couples of all ages, all shapes and sizes. Some talking and laughing with warmth and love in their eyes, alive. Some going through the motions, mumbling pat responses, half-dead. Some like us, sitting like husks as if their souls have been removed. It certainly feels like that as our memories are asked to stretch further and further.
I’d love to find out if he feels the same.
I stop again, to wave to a couple we’ve met at the hotel. She waves back and he smiles. Nice people, interesting with lots to say, only a little younger than us.
Up ahead he stops and half turns, unsmiling, towards me. ‘Did you say something…?’
Swearwords: None.
Description: On a holiday beach, a wife considers what her marriage has become.
_____________________________________________________________________
The beach is crowded.
Young couples, families, single people hoping not to be for much longer and old couples like us who might not have much longer, period. Well, when I say ‘like us’ I mean that not all of them are like us. Some are still talking to each other, I know that for a fact. I can see their mouths moving as they look at each other.
Yes, they look at each other too. The noise they make seems to be far off in the distance, a buzzing, a disturbance struggling to pass through the very hot air just above the sand.
Next to me there is silence. There’s been silence from the person who occupies the space next to me for around ten years now and do you know the funny thing? Every minute of those ten years I’ve been expecting the silence to end and for things to get back to normal, waiting for the sound to return. Even just one genuine burst of non-ironic laughter. I still hope.
I ask myself sometimes, why do I do this, why do I put myself through this ridiculous, endless…? I don’t even know what to call it. What I mean is why do I stubbornly refuse to accept that this, the silence, is normal?
It’s far too hot and really uncomfortable under the dead grass shade thing that we have to sit under. I’m sweating under my sun hat and I can’t concentrate on my book. Sometimes the sweat runs into my eyes and then I have to take my glasses off to wipe the sweat away and then I have to find another clean dry tissue to wipe the greasy finger prints off my glasses. And I have to make sure I don’t drop my book on the sand all the while. Beach holidays are not as relaxing as they tell you. The cruise last year was just the same, except it was the wind instead of the heat. You had to hold on to everything with all your strength just to stop it flying away into the ocean. Gone forever.
I suggest a walk along the shore, on the sand, with our feet in the shallow water at the edge. I like that. He gets up and sets off, without speaking of course, and without asking me what direction I want to go in. I follow, about five or six yards behind as usual, as though we measured it years ago and agreed. Defendable space they call it, a safe distance, our demilitarized zone.
You know, I remember the last time we held hands. I remember where and when, it’s so clear in my mind. I can still feel him, his strong fingers and the roughness of his palm. I wonder how he feels now. I wonder if his skin feels the same or if it has softened with retirement. If I was able to catch up maybe I could dare to take a chance and find out right now but no, he might have a stroke. I still feel that ache sometimes, you know? I don’t think he does.
The breeze from the sea freshens my face and seems to release the tension from every part of my body. The tiny lapping waves wash my feet and I look out at the empty fishing boats dozing gently on the water, so blue and tranquil.
I fall further behind as I take time to talk to a child working diligently on a sand castle type construction project. One plastic bucket, a spade and time on a beach. It’s so easy to be happy in solitude when all your expectations are met.
I look up, at his sagging back pressing down on his legs that remain permanently bent at the knees these days. It’s strange how our bodies become ill-defined, irregular and asymmetrical. My God! We both look like half-empty canvas shopping bags. Our lives may have been too comfortable and it’s simply true that we stopped looking for challenges early on. No long walks, no new adventures like horse riding or bungee jumping and we even stopped going to concerts. The couch, the newspapers and the TV took over and we sunk into that crushing normality, that quick-sand of comfort. I suppose that’s why he eventually stopped talking, to me at least. We didn’t create anything to talk about, we shared a life of literally nothing.
Back from the water’s edge there is the mass of couples of all ages, all shapes and sizes. Some talking and laughing with warmth and love in their eyes, alive. Some going through the motions, mumbling pat responses, half-dead. Some like us, sitting like husks as if their souls have been removed. It certainly feels like that as our memories are asked to stretch further and further.
I’d love to find out if he feels the same.
I stop again, to wave to a couple we’ve met at the hotel. She waves back and he smiles. Nice people, interesting with lots to say, only a little younger than us.
Up ahead he stops and half turns, unsmiling, towards me. ‘Did you say something…?’
About the Author
Born in Glasgow, Ronnie Smith has lived and worked in Romania for the past eight years and is getting back into the writing of fiction after a long break. He publishes in Romania, in English and Romanian, and hopes to be published more in Scotland in the future. He is currently working on a novel set in post-independence Scotland.