A Prose With No Direction

sometimes talking clears the mind

We arrive at the beach at exactly five, parking the truck against the sidewalk as the two of us put our masks on.

We exit out of the car, feet in sandals caressing the face of the cement walk, leading me out into the big, wide world. I look up towards the sky, the ocean of air turning into an orange ombre, the sky a bright orange and light yellow towards the east while a darkened, blue sky paints the west. 

We cross the street towards the entrance of the beach and walk down towards the waves that push back and forth against the sandy, white grains, subtly and quietly making love to it. The wind is stronger in the area where the waves are big, my hair becoming a frenzy of flying strands, some pasting onto my face. 

But Hugh, on the other hand, remains perfect. His white shirt and chestnut brown hair dance and play with the wind, the weather favoring him over me. 

"Shall we sit?" He asks me, removing his flip-flops and mask.

"We aren't allowed to," I reply.

Hugh looks around, smiling. "There's no one here but us. Besides, if there are cops that come and tell us we can't sit, then we'll just get up and walk." He plops down onto the ground, stretching his long legs and wiggling his toes, his back arching to look up at the brightening sky. He looks at me. "It's pretty."

I look at him and then up to the sky. "Yeah, it is." 

I follow his lead and remove my shoes and mask as well, hugging my knees to my chest as I sit. I pull the sleeves of my cardigan over my hands as the cold wind brushes past us, eyes staring at the beautiful painting before me, a masterpiece as wonderful as Hugh's. 

"So, about last night," Hugh begins, his legs crossing and arms lying on his thighs. "I'm sorry. It must've seem very abrupt and confusing. I never meant to show you that side of me."

As he said that, the memories of the night before this moment returns to my conscience. 

I don't look at him, but I reply to his voice. "I'm glad you showed it, though. If we're going to be pennies, isn't it customary to learn about each other? I'm not going to pry into your past or business, but don't feel like you have to shut yourself up either."

I hear him chuckle. "That's true," he answers. "If I don't do it, I hope you don't so, too."

I glance at him. "Don't do what?"

"Don't shut yourself up."

I grin, hugging myself tighter. "I'll try."

I hear him sigh. "Aren't you curious, though?" He asks, smiling. "About me?"

I'm always curious.

Too curious for my own good.

"I would be lying if I said I wasn't," I answer. "But like I said, I won't pry because I don't like it when people pry me open. But I'll hear what you have to say when you want to say it."

He nods, his countenance bearing the expression of debating whether or not he wants to bring up the past. 

In the end, he does.

Which is typical of Hugh.

Because Hugh likes to talk. 

"It's a depressing story," he starts, rubbing the nape of his neck, chuckling. "I don't want to ruin the mood."

"Don't we all have tragic pasts?" I say.

He eyes me. "Well, not everyone," he replies. "At least, I hope not."

"Sad, happy, empowering, or inspirational," I start, inhaling the salty air, "it doesn't matter to me. I try not to let it affect my mood. And you shouldn't either."