Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

18

18
Most of the Airbnbs and motels are crammed with junior high kids out on school trips of American War of Independence tour, enthusiastic parents who decided to tag along and people driving up to New York for a long Pride month.
As that would entail, the only location left for us to spend the night in is a motel on the outskirts that comes off as increasingly sketchy the more I look at the pictures.

"We gotta do what we gotta do, Brooklyn," Anastasia says.

The initial plan was we would drop off the luggage at the hotel and drive around the city, as long as sunset allowed us.

"Let's not leave our stuff there," I suggest.
"Yeah, I feel the same. Besides, it is not a lot of bags," Anastasia agrees.

The conversation from the early lunch had sunk into me by then. She is right. Both of our circles are complicated beyond belief and it would be incredibly unfair and selfish of me to make that mistake and drag her into the quicksand I cannot wait to escape.

"So where to?" I ask her.
"It is possible to drive by the Jersey Shore house?" she asks, giggling.
"You watched that shit?" I laugh.
"I couldn't help it! It was so ridiculous, once I started I couldn't stop. I even skipped school one day to binge watch Jersey Shore episodes and Dad got so mad!"
I shake my head. "Okay okay. So after the Jersey Shore house, we can go stroll along the boardwalk. Sounds cool?"
"Yep."

It was ten minutes from where we were.

"There it is!" Anastasia shouts, breaking into mad chuckles the next instant.

"It looks a lot smaller in person," she says, sticking her hands out to take a picture with her phone. I slow down.

We drive past a long row of cars and come to halt as the road ends the wooden boardwalk begins. The salt in the air tickles my nose.

"Can we stop here for a while?", Anastasia asks.
"Sure," I reply, parking her wheelchair at a corner and squatting down beside her.

People pour past us into the bars and souvenir shops, kids chase each other, parents run after them, occasionally a stark warning reaching our ears. Dog owners strut on the woodwork, the animals proudly following their masters. Or a friend maybe.

Anastasia and I sit watching the waves crash on the shore at regular intervals, not a word exchanged between us, oblivious to all but the crashing of the waves.
I watch her as she moves a strand of hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear, the stubborn strand breaking free after seconds anyway.

"What?"

She must have sensed me looking over.

"Nothing," I say with a smile.

A large wave catches our attention.

"Have you ever wondered what living by a beach may feel like?" she asks.
"Vacuuming three times a day I suppose."
"No! Not that. It's like, when I wake up, all I hear is Dad's kettle whistling in the otherwise silent air. When you wake up-", she stops.

"My alarm blaring," I finish her sentence.

"Yes. And when you turn those sounds off, what remains?"
"Silence," I answer.

"But not when you live by the ocean. It is never silent. It is never stoic. There is always something happening, something taken away and something thrown back. There have been so many instances in life where I have had nothing but silence that I cannot help but think maybe, just maybe things would have been slightly different had there been another sound, another noise in the background other than my thoughts."

"My life would have been infinitely different." I sigh.

Images of someone standing up to my father flashes before my eyes, someone talking to my mother, someone talking to me.

"I have always wanted to live on the beach towards the end of life," she says.
"You can."
She looks over, surprised, "That's different."
"What?"

"Most of the time I tell people about this they just tell me that the end of my life is far far away and acquiring a strong establishment by the coastal sands isn't the easiest task."

"Does not hurt to have a dream and just because it is not easy, does not mean it can't be done. It won't be comfortable but I guess I would not want to be comfortable all my life. That coming from me is ironical, I know but still, I am terrified of ease. I am terrified of comfort. Because comfort is where dreams go to die."

She smiles at me. "Comfort is where dreams go to die."

Another wave crashes and squeals of laughter rise up from a child stomping to keep the sands from whisking away from under his feet.

"This is what I'll say the next time someone tries to sass me," Anastasia says.

"Even better." I move closer to her. "I saw there's a rent sign up on the Jersey House. Make enough money, you can buy that."
She laughs. "Yes. Sounds super convenient."

I snap out of my trance when the sunlight fades from my sight and I look around to see the morning crowd replaced by the nightlife. Bottles of beers being clunked open and slow carnival beginning to set up.
I look over at Anastasia and she is completely lost to the world, her lips slightly parted and chest rising up and down steadily.
"Ana?"
"Hmm."
"I think it's about time we got up."
Her gaze moves to take in her surroundings, maybe to take with herself carefully. She takes a deep breathe, as if to remember how the salty air smells like and committing it to her memory, and says, "Yes."

We drive into a common parking lot. The M of the Motel sign flickers like a ghostly apparition. The sickly boy at reception extends me the key to our room and takes our luggage like he is programmed to do so.
I feel more out of place with every passing second, gripping Anastasia's wheelchair as close to me as physically possible.
The boy drops the bags near the foot of the bed as I fish out a twenty-dollar bill, because why not?
He takes it and mutters a dead thank you before closing the door on his way out.
Neither of us felt like dinner.
I change into a pair of boxer shorts and climb onto the tough mattress, pulling the poofy covers up to my chest.

"A little help please?" Anastasia whispers from the other side. I get up to help her in.
"Does Daddy tuck his child in?" I joke.
"Not really but my daddy doesn't sleep shirtless either."
"Will that be awkward?" I ask, a little embarrassed and self-conscious now.
"Brooklyn. I'm joking."
I could say that relieved me but I would be lying.
Before I can overthink this, the lights go out.
"Goodnight, Brooklyn."
"Goodnight, Ana."
I turn to my right and close my eyes as if on command.