Feeling Tidal

Two

My night so far has been spent rustling my legs with the white comforter, hoping to find a cool piece of fabric. A white fan propped on the windowsill pushed a barely cool breeze on the exposed of my back not covered by my brown tank top.

The sun had set hours ago, not that it felt that way. Earlier this afternoon, I missed how the sunlight used to peak through branches covered in pine. Now I contemplate wearing sunglasses while I read sitting on my bed. However, on our porch there's a hammock. Unlike the practical one in Vermont, this hammock was more for the aesthetic look.

A pillow with "beach" written on it in blue stitching rested on the upper body of the rope-y thing, because like the sweatshirts everybody wears, god forbid you own something that doesn't remind you of where you are.

No evergreen trees canopying over the house anymore, or better yet, shading the wooden balcony that was connected to my bedroom.

It took three more roll overs before I finally decided tonight was not the kind of night where I rest.

Slipping my feet into the black rubber flip flops, I tied my hair into a very sloppy bun before making my way downstairs and out to the porch. The bright hardwood floors didn't creak as I stepped on them, and this had to be by far the oddest thing to miss. Old, deep brown wooden floorboards that woke the entire house had you tried to sneak out. Although, back home the only place you would sneak out to was the lake. Go canoeing in the moonlight or something.

Swinging open the glass door, a pleasant beach smell filled my nose, much better than the gross smell that was all too noticeable when we had been unpacking boxes.

Crossing the street here meant actually having to look both ways. Even more strangely, I had to wait for cars to pass. I guess that's what happens in a city with 100,000 more people than what your used to in your hometown.

Separating the ocean and the long line of beach houses was a cement wall, which stood awkwardly at the height of my chest. As for width, in the daylight people used it as a tanning bed or high up picnic table. You'd think it was relaxing to tan on, but considering a sidewalk went along the side that wasn't being hit by the ocean, it was more awkward than anything.

Okay, it was pretty. The way the moon gleamed over ripples and small waves. But it's prettier on the Chittenden Reservoir, and by a long shot.

I squinted my eyes at a dark figured lump which sat up top the cement wall. Had my phone not been left under the fresh linens on my bed, I'd start researching nocturnal animals in South Carolina. And I'd also hope they respond to my scare tactics in the same way bears do, or else I'm dead.

It clicked. The lump clicked. But now that something in me decides not to turn around and run to comfort, it outlines more of a person. A person who held up a small rectangle facing the ocean.

Maybe I didn't run to comfort because Vermont is quite far from South Carolina.

Said lump whipped it's head in my direction following the scrapping sound a pebble and sand mixture created under my flip flops. Once it realized I wasn't an axe murderer, it's head whipped back to face the ocean, just as fast as it whipped to look to me. He looked my age, maybe a year or two older. It's hard to tell when the only light was coming from flickering light posts across the street from us.

Ocean breeze frizzed the dark curls which were plopped on the lumps head. I think the lump is a he, which causes me to pick up my pace as I walk by it. Not quickly enough for it to be too noticeable. I'm sure he was harmless and only out here to cope with restless, like myself, but you never know.

Once I passed him and peaked over the cement a few times more I figured it wouldn't hurt to go back inside. At least there, the heat wasn't accompanied by a sticky humid feeling that coated the visible skin. Not to mention the blisters I could feel forming at the soles of my feet, where the flip flop straps attached to the cheap foam underneath my feet.

My sore and sandy feet dragged my body along the sidewalk, my eyes making sure I didn't step on any of the old dark pieces of spit out gum. People can be so lazy and quite frankly, careless when it comes to not trashing the environment. I'm no environmental protection nazi, but I probably care more than 80% of people do about that kind of thing.

All the houses that sat alongside the road were different. Inside and out. But it was the clustering of streetlights and telephone poles in the night that made me look at each of the numbers plastered onto mailboxes.

947

Nine forty seven was now where the Hart's reside. I may be a Hart, and I may reside here. But my heart was one thousand miles away, curled under a tree, sitting on layers of dead pine needles, not here.