SPRING                                                                                                         

          Contact

 Liza Kapland

She sat in a train station again.  It seemed as though she were always sitting in train stations these days; creating an unending sense of dislocation, impermanence, though the truth was she couldn’t remember how many times she’d actually switched trains; sometimes she thought that perhaps all of it was in her imagination.  She sat on a grey stone bench, hands on her knees, back straight facing the unoccupied tracks.  She liked to dress up for trains now and wore a navy sundress which exposed her shoulders so brown she seemed to blend in with nature as if she never were a human being in it, but rather an extension, watered by the sun, growing, her big black Jacqueline Kennedy sunglasses and maybe even a hat; she couldn’t remember if she really owned one; one with a wide brim of tan straw and a pink ribbon wrapped around it, but in her mind’s eye she pictured it sitting atop her head, the ends of the scarf hanging limply behind in the heat, a throwback to the more glamorous times, the twenties or thirties maybe.  Her grey eyes were soft and focused only on the brown tracks in parallel formation, the smell of heat, like dried up cigarettes hung in the thick air, unmoving.  There was one other person, an old man sitting two voies across, his hands on his knees, back rounded beneath a pale yellow shirt, raised half moons under his wet eyes, and dark hair streaked with grey brushed straight back and thinning in a way that made it look like rows, she imagined when he brushed it, the comb like a hoe in a field.  His large earlobes hung low and tan.  She knew that even with all the Italian she had picked up, perhaps if she had been fluent even, they’d never speak the same language.  He was facing her, going in the other direction.

She looked at the train tracks, the long metal arms stretching in either direction, pulled together by thick wooden slabs five inches apart.  She thought of the undersides of trains, the big steel wheels, the thick black cords hanging down, nearly touching the steel arms, and white steam to exhale between the train and the track, mingling with the stale smoke and few bougainvilleas, only to then hang, trapped, in the air.  She pushed her glasses up, they having slid a quarter of the way down her nose where the pores were beginning to glisten, and she looked up beneath the dark lenses, eyes suddenly focused, intent at the royal blue rectangle which would tell her where she was, a sign, but the train roared past, breaking some barrier of space, not cutting but rather entering the thick air as if it were a hole to fall into, a wrinkle in time.  It wasn’t important anyway really, the place was just another name in a Michelin guide with an arbitrary set of stars; she was only surprised she hadn’t heard that bell ringing, that sharp tinny A sound that rarely stopped.  She stood up and rolled a small black suitcase behind her.  At the door, she pressed a square green button on the side of the train.  She always loved watching the door open with its loud, powerful sigh and the three steps that emerged to meet her like a red carpet.  She walked up all three before pulling her suitcase up.  She had never attained grace in this movement, the black cloth slowly peeling away at the base of the small plastic wheels told her as much. 

She placed her suitcase on the rack above her and settled into the cornermost seat on her left in the passenger-less train.  She sat low in the seat, legs out and crossed on the seat in front of her, head tilted toward the window.  A trumpet-sound like a shofar blast, and the train was moving forward in space.  She closed her eyes and felt the breeze from the opened window.  Every window in the car was open at a different point, rationing out unequal amounts of air.  She opened her eyes again slowly and looked out the thick pane, partially opaque from age, unsure if she expected to see yellow hills with thick coats of rich green or sun-bleached boats dotting navy water.  What she saw, in fact, were both terra cotta houses crouched in olive green seas and bejeweled water in soft waves of white foam.  It seemed that every time she was plunged in the darkness, those never ending tunnels which cut off all air like a sucked in breath, (was she holding her breath?) she was released into a new setting, as though she were watching a series of set changes in a Broadway play.  Boats and trees and buildings, some rising high with white pillars and trompe d’oeil facades and others with pink peeling paint and soft white sheets hanging on black iron balconies, sometimes a grey tee-shirt or colored underwear.  Signs of people, life.  In any event, she was grateful for the breeze.

The train stopped with a sudden jerk forward that pulled her sunglasses low on her nose.  She was not sure where she was really, but she felt she should get off.  She suspected somehow that there were no more stops after this one.  She stood up, pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose and smoothed the front of her dress with her hands.  She could not remember if she was wearing a hat or not but she preferred to think she was, so she didn’t adjust it lest it not be there.  She stood on the tips of her toes to grab the suitcase from its cradle above, and despite her efforts it fell with a thump to the ground. 

On the gray concrete platform, the station looked the same as any other with a long salmon rectangle housing tickets, magazines, a Turkish toilet and perhaps lockers to store luggage for the day.  She turned back, surprised the train had already soundlessly disappeared and looked across the empty tracks to the two silver poles holding up the sign.  A destination was written in thick white letters but they seemed blurry to her.  She supposed it did not make too much difference anyway; she knew that she was somewhere.  She knew that this is what it was to be alone.  She had only felt like this, so completely cut off, once before, lying naked on a cold, cold desk next to a stranger cupping her breast.  Alone.  Except this time it was the heat that strangled her and made it hard to breathe, and for a moment she wanted to go home. But there was a life that was still stretching, a direction she must go. At least that’s what she needed to believe.

She rolled her suitcase across the pavement, through the station building.  On her left was a small newsstand and glossy magazines slumped in white cylindrical holders that spun.  To her right were the sliding glass windows of the reservation and ticket desks.  She knew without looking no one was there, it must have been somewhere between one and four in the afternoon.  She walked outside and down a steep paved hill that curved to the left, still rolling her suitcase on the sidewalk behind her.  At the bottom, an immense white hotel stretched upward to the right with a sign which read Miramare in thick aquamarine letters.  All the shutters were sea blue green.  She crossed the empty street and carried her suitcase down the peeling green stairs that led to the sand.  Rows of empty lawn chairs stood in armies of white with green or blue or red stripes.  Unopened umbrellas stood straight up every fifth chair like soldiers.  A man in a red t-shirt lay across a white/green bed cradling a woman’s brown legs across him, his head tilted to the right.  Her toes were painted sea-shell pink.  Their eyes were closed and they were smiling.  Far to the right, a small woman with skin so tan and loose on her skinny frame it looked like clothing sat on a tropical colored towel watching the ocean.  She hugged her knees to her chest.  A small boy with soft skin and short blond hair cut close to his scalp ran across the beach in flat, fast footsteps waddling for his mother.  He wore blue and white striped shorts and thick yellow goggles.

She looked back at the big white hotel.  Is being happy easy?  It could be.  She could just turn around.  Just go back to a place that was familiar.  She wanted to.  But she could not.

She walked through the straight line between two columns of lawn chairs, her black suitcase wobbling in the sand, to a man standing outside a wooden shack.  In front of the dark wood house, were Crayola blue and red boats stretched out on their gunwales, their curved keels arcing towards the sun.  The man leaned against the shack in a sky blue polo shirt, his right leg bent at the knee with the foot resting on the building.  He had curly black hair, full pink cheeks and small liquid black eyes.  His forehead glistened in droplets of sweat.  He was leaning on the left side and she had gone around the right to land in front of him.  He took a white cloth from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

“Senora?”

She pointed to the boats.  Her left arm cut the sky in a perfect straight line.

“Quanto costa?”  She felt a slight breeze and moved her right hand to the back of her head lest her hat blow away.  He looked at the angle her arm made, the forearm and bicep meeting in a crisp sharp elbow.  She looked like a statue.

“Quanto tempo?”

 “Il giorno.”

“Fa dieci.”

She pulled a red bill from her wallet and handed it to the man.  He folded it in half and put it in his pocket.

She picked a red boat for no other reason than she found it aesthetically pleasing.  She and the senor each stood at a pointed end and turned it over and she saw its hollow red insides dusted with a layer of white sand.  She didn’t know why, but she had immense respect for this man and his boats, as if for some reason he was contributing to the greater good.  His boats stood for something bigger than himself.

She lifted her small black suitcase, her only traveling companion, into one end and laid it flat against the bottom of the boat.  On the opposite side, so as to evenly distribute the weight, she climbed in left foot, then right, her back facing the great glittering expanse of aquamarine.  The man handed her two yellow plastic paddles and then stood at the other end and pushed until she felt she was moving by the will of the water.  She sat rocking for a second, and once the little boat regained its balance she wanted to get up and shout and wave, “ Arrivaderci!” but she did not know to whom or why she would be screaming.  The man resumed his position at the shack, titled his head down to light a cigarette, and then exhaled grey breath watching her drift away.

She liked paddling very much.  She liked watching the muscles in her arms bulge and relax, her triceps defining themselves in the tan skin.  She liked watching the water churn and move in foamy white circles and know that it was she who had broken the current.  And she didn’t mind the heat.  She didn’t mind being in the very middle of what she knew was a still and burning sea, she couldn’t feel it anymore.  She knew she had made up her mind to come here, and so she went without further thought.  She’d paddle for a while then suddenly, abruptly, drop the yellow oars and just sit, drifting upon the placid sea; she wondered where it would take her if she did not force it in any way.  So she would sit attentive, her arms stretched with hands crossed over her knees, as if she were waiting for it to answer.  After long still periods, she became impatient and took up the paddles again. 

Eventually, she saw land.  She didn’t know how long she had sailed, alternating between paddling and drifting, although the sun was low and burned orange against the cloudless sky.  She paddled in long slow strokes into a patch of sand, not expecting the rough stop it brought.  She climbed out of the boat, her sandals sinking into the wet sand, and walked to the other end to pull it further on shore.  She didn’t want it to drift back in the water on its own, unattended.  She turned around.  A short black cliff graying in its crevices stretched up in front, topped with mossy green hair that reached into the great beyond.  She wished she could still imagine some romantic adventure to transpire, a chiseled man with a voice like a deep whisper to come around the corner, extend his strong and beautiful hand, look into her eyes and say, “Hi”.  She wished she could just melt into that fantasy, into that other world, take his hand and be off.  But she had exhausted all rabbit holes a long time ago.  She turned back toward the chameleon sea, set her hat down on the sand (had it always been there?)  and sat down next to it, her brown arms loosely hugging her knees.  Her linen dress and a thin wisp of bleached hair fluttered slightly in the breeze.  She looked out at the world and wondered what she was waiting for.

 Charlie

She hadn’t meant to say anything.  In fact, it was not until the next day when Eric asked to hear the whole story, that she even realized she had said anything.  She had had  a couple of drinks and it must have been her subconscious that needed to release it.  So she said quite simply, “Charlie and I slept together.”  The world had changed in that moment because the hearer had altered his version of life and soon the phrase would roll out among the sea in waves, taking its toll among others, hitting those who were closest the hardest until the furthest person felt practically nothing at all but was still touched. So was that really closure? She was torn between opening up the truth to the great beyond, seeking absolution, or through stoic silence, convincing the world she felt like it never happened.  But she could not help it.  She just wanted to release it, let it go, take herself away from the pain.  The only problem was she knew she was giving it to someone else.  And she didn’t want Charlie to know, she didn’t want to alter the fabric of his life unless it was to bind herself to it.  Despite all the damage he had done to her, she would drop her life and marry him tomorrow if he asked.  Like a gnawing hunger, she needed him to love her, even though he never would.  And she hated herself for it.  It was like throwing up.  Sometimes, she needed that release, to feel it all just empty out of her, but afterward she hated herself for that weakness, for allowing herself that release, for that moment of weakness.  And she couldn’t pretend it had never happened because there were long term ramifications and stomach aches for days.  One day she’d wake up with yellow teeth and the inability to have children and she could trace it to that day.  It was the same with Charlie.  One day he’d love her again and then he’d find out she told.  But what chance did she stand?  You cannot take one bite of chocolate cake.  You either eat none or all, and she had picked up her fork the second Eric mentioned his name.

For most of the weekend, Zurich ’s orange trolleys had rolled down colorful streets with snow shining brilliant white under the cloudless sky.  The large population of shoppers and tourists had been able to remove their heavy winter coats and enjoy perhaps what felt like spring in Switzerland , and even treated themselves to looking at resort collections in store windows, as if bathing suit season were just around the corner.  Here and there a child consumed an ice cream cone.

She and Eric sat in the Savoy at a round table in the back.  It was perhaps one o’clock on a Sunday.  There were few other customers, mostly in suits with full heads of white hair reading newspapers, having tea.  The sky was a non-threatening gray, but it made the white snow on the ground appear dirty and used.  Eric leaned back on the tan wood booth, his arms encircling both sides as if they were around someone’s shoulders, his long legs crossed in front of him.  She was waiting for his question she had prompted with her admission the night before.

“So what did he do to you?”

She looked up at his face and into his eyes.  He wore thick black rectangular glasses, and his nose jutted out beneath them.  She saw his eyes attempt to glaze over, as if this were a light matter, but underneath she saw the discomfort; he did not want to know.  Her eyes partially squinted, and her right eyebrow a hair higher than the left signified a deep confusion.  She was unable to comprehend what had happened and what was happening now.  She just knew she needed to sound mature.

“He treated me horribly.”  It was a matter of fact statement, purposely devoid of emotion, and thus sounding painfully filled.  It had been more than a year since Charlie had hurt her, but it was still a smarting wound.  And now he was engaged.  Fresh salt.

“How?”

She could see in his eyes that he had been affected by her first statement, and perhaps out of shock at the force of the words or perhaps self blame, had asked her to expand.

But where does one begin with pain?  You don’t know it’s pain until it hurts and sometimes then it’s too late to know how or where it started.

“He would call me and tell me I was beautiful and wonderful and marvelous for hours on end and then forbid me to see him.  He’d pay for taxis for me to come over at two AM and tell me he knew he was meant to be with me.  He’d say he loved me and then tell me he couldn’t because of the situation.”  The anger she unsuccessfully tried to cover, made her feel like her argument was weak.  She wasn’t a little girl.  She wasn’t making it up.  And she needed Eric to understand that.

She was going to say, “He sat on his white leather couch facing me and pushed the hair back from my eyes.  He slept in his big white bed clutching my leg, my calf a pillow, the whole night, he showed up at a bar with another, with his new girlfriend, and came over to introduce her to me.”  But she was afraid to get emotional.  She needed to make it sound like an explosion that had passed, and because she was strong, it had left no fallout.

But there was always fallout, and it was always hard to explain.

“I don’t know” she said quietly, her little voice made her seem little, “…he hurt me.”

She hated herself for being inarticulate.  Here was her one big chance, and she couldn’t even explain.  Why was there a barrier?  There was a failure in communication even though she was saying words that were important, that held meaning.  Why were they not working like they should?  Eric uncrossed and recrossed his legs. 

“So I think I’m going to have to say something to your brother.”

A hand grabbed her heart and made it beat faster.  Her eyes widened in fear.  She hated Charlie, but she had to protect him, “No, you can’t.  Really, it’s just not necessary.”  Her voice was pleading.

“Well I can’t just keep this information to myself.  He needs to know what kind of friend this is.”

She wished she had never taken that first bite.  The universe had already started changing and she didn’t recognize where she was in it anymore.

Eric shifted again and ordered a diet coke from a severe woman with a severe bun.

“I’m not sure how I feel about Zurich ,” he said.

“I’m not sure how I feel about anything,” she wanted to say, but instead, just said, “I know.”

 Anton

She lay under the big comforter on her back and Anton sat Indian style in his white cotton underwear fixing a cigarette.  “You can’t have some.”

“Pourquoi?”

“You’re too young.”  She couldn’t tell if he was amused or serious.

“Shut up.”

“No, this is bad for you.”  He licked the paper and sealed it with his thumb and forefinger.

“You just want it for yourself.”

He held it up to his lips and inhaled while he lit it, and then handed it to her.  She grabbed it in her thumb and pointer like him and took a small, quick inhale, a little afraid of what too much would do to her.  She handed it back and closed her eyes, smiling.  The only part of her that was visible outside the blanket was her head.

He took a long drag and they lived in silence.  Suddenly she opened her eyes and turned on her side to face him, her hands under her head like the pantomimed movement of sleeping.  “So what time am I leaving?”  Her grey eyes sparkled.

He turned his head right and looked down at her, so little in his bed.  “You’re crazy.”  He grabbed his little round ashtray on the table next to him and flicked his cigarette.  She watched him for a moment, his hand pulling the top of the ashtray up to let the remnants sink to the bottom, and then shifted back on her back and looked up at the ceiling. 

“Fine,” she said exasperated.

He took a drag.  “I think that in one thousand years or some time people will be extinct.”

“Oh, vraiment?” Her eyes were closed, he continued smoking.

“With all the things we do to the world eventually there has to be a new species…there were dinosaurs and life forms and all these things created and destroyed before us, so eventually we’ll be next, we’re a self-destructing people anyway.  We’re leading ourselves to our own end.”

“And when will that be?”  Her eyes were still closed.

“I don’t know.  Not like your children or my children or their children but it will happen eventually, soon.”

“And what will be next?”

“Robots maybe or another kind of people.  There’s existing life on other planets.  There has to be something greater than us.”

She opened her eyes.  “Je dois partir.”

She got up quickly and abruptly, jerking the covers off and jumping up in rapid successive movements to escape the cold.  Her jeans lay crumpled on the floor and she picked them up and threw them on.  She found her black bra at the foot of the bed and put it on, snapping it first and then turning it around and then pulling the straps on.  She walked into the living room and found the black shirt at the end of the couch.

He stood in his doorway, still in his underwear, watching her gather herself up.   “Goodnight silly girl.”

She walked over to him, stood on her tippy toes and kissed him on the mouth.  She felt his dark stubble against her skin.  “Bonne nuit,” she said with a smile.  She would’ve said “A la prochain” but it wasn’t necessary and one never knew if there’d really be a next time or not.  Or when it would be for that matter.  They had the sense it could be for months or years and nothing would really change between them.  If they had understood at the start, they could understand forever.

He watched her grab her red coat and put it on slowly, tired from the sex hash cocktail.  She grabbed her purse and put on her gloves.  He came over and opened the door.

“I loved being kicked out of your house,” she said sleepily.

“Bisous my silly girl” and he closed the dark wood door behind her.

She walked down the four flights, pushed the button at the front door and pulled it open with a click.  On the small street, she always wondered if he watched her from his window, but she never gave him the satisfaction of looking.  She made a right onto the big street and hailed a taxi home.

 Michael

She sat in seat 34C.  It was a window seat, and she watched without feeling, the world in a patchwork beneath her.  She thought that one could fall through clouds because they weren’t really cotton balls, they were just mist.  Something was over.  She leaned back on the purple gray seat, filled with the scent of stale travel.  The air in your lungs the day after you’ve been out late and smoking cigarettes.  She was afraid to think, so she stared only at the small square of light and the black plastic circle blasting a stream of frozen air.  The baby behind her screamed and kicked the back of her seat.  She heard its mother beg and negotiate, “Please stop, please stop.” Her voice thin from hours of travel and pleading. 

The man next to her had crooked teeth and a mop of mousy brown hair and chewed on Jujubes.  “Would you like some miss?” he said as he offered the bright yellow bag, torn just at the corner. 

She looked at his hands and the dirt underneath his fingernails, “No thank you.” “Watching that figure huh?  Gotta’ stay slim.” He flashed his yellowing teeth that had accumulated red and green Jujubes in the gaps.  His mouth was like a fruitcake. She smiled with her mouth closed and made a noise that was perhaps the beginning of a forced laugh and turned back forward.  She traced the outline of the numbers on the phone in front of her with her fingers and then closed her eyes and went to sleep.  She woke up to the captain speaking and saw that the fasten seatbelt sign was lit.  She looked out the portal again, at brown and green squares, and then stared straight ahead as the plane descended and then struck the ground with a bounce.  She felt her stomach jump with the aircraft and then settle again.  She waited while they taxied, then undid the seatbelt and pulled a large brown weekend bag from the overhead compartment.  She couldn’t let herself think.  She followed as people gathered up their hand luggage and companions and filed slowly out the plane.  She smiled at the blond stewardess and said, “Thank you.”  She walked a few feet, past the exit of the aircraft, then turned left into the ladies room.  She went up to the sink and placed her bag between her feet.  She unzipped it and pulled out a smaller brown bag and set that on the gray sink. She splashed cold water on her face and wiped it down with two paper towels.  She redid her make-up, and walked out of the bathroom.  She had a new face.  The last few months belonged to a different one.

            She followed the herds of strangers down escalators, through corridors, back rigid and hand clutching the handle of the bag which hung at her side.  She stepped off the final escalator, right foot, then left and took five steps to the silver carousel.

            She felt his presence before she saw it.  She knew Michael had planned it this way.  She knew he had wanted it to be like a movie.  He stood twenty feet from her, head titled to the left, his body outlined in florescent lighting.  She stood with a bag to the right of her feet.  She thought, maybe, she was supposed to run.  She felt her shoes squeak on the floor, the awful sound of rubber on rubber, his arms opened and swallowed her in.  Her mouth pressed to his gray t-shirt.  She smelled his scent and worried she’d throw up on the airport floor.  He smoothed her hair flat to her head with his palm and kissed it, “I missed you so much.  Oh, how I missed you.” 

There was a time when she needed him.  There was a time when she lay in his arms and she felt like he was the only one who really loved her, because if she left that room, a knife would tear through his heart.  There was a time when his strong arms protected her and she didn’t know from what exactly, but she knew there was a world out there that was scary and cruel.  She knew that outside that bedroom was not like inside, and it was such a struggle to be loved.  For her everyday was a fight.  A fight against herself, her thoughts, the world.  That she was dying trying to make everyone love her.  That she hated herself and wanted to rip apart her skin.  That she wanted to be naked and blood and bones and nothing.  That at the same time she didn’t want to exist.  That the world was not a nice place to her, that it bruised her, ignored her, noticed her, put her down.  That the only eyes she could look in were Michael’s and see a reflection she liked.  That only with him as armor and a mirror did she feel like everything was going to be okay.  And she’d try to hold on to that, to never look away; but then a car would drive by and she knew there was a world outside that bedroom.

She tried to feel that again, but she had traveled so much further, on a plane even, and she didn’t know what to feel.  She wished she could need him because something about that was so easy.  There would be a bedroom of protection, she could be kept in a doll’s house.  She would be hidden away.  Cut off.  She looked down at her hands; she was not a doll or a lifeboat.  She did not want to be held or have to hold.  Inside her, there were only linoleum oceans, fluorescent lighting, and screeching shoes.  She looked at Michael.  If falling in love were beautiful and profound, she thought, perhaps falling out was more so.  Because in this place, she could look at herself through her own eyes and feel a little less scared.

        Jake

Jake sat her down on a wood swing bench in a backyard in the valley.  It was that new wood, smooth and light, that still smelled like shavings and reminded her of houses in developments that all looked the same.  She looked at him, waiting for him to respond to her question, her presence there, but her eyes showed no vulnerability nor anger. His head was down and she saw his black hair gleam with product.  Could she really be with someone whose hair she couldn’t run her fingers through? She often found herself studying him like that and asking questions.  Like when he came back from vacation a little heavier, she thought, could she really be with someone who had a propensity for gaining weight?  And then what if they had children, would they be like that to?  Could she bring something into the world, knowing she was condemning them to that fate?  It felt too mean.

He looked up at her, his green eyes so innocent and childlike.  She wanted to reach out and protect him, tell him everything was going to be okay.  He looked at her, his pupils moving back and forth quickly, searching.  “I think maybe we don’t have a connection outside sex.” 

She had almost laughed.  She hoped dearly he hadn’t seen her cheeks rise for a moment, because she remembered there were feelings.  She smiled as though the man had offered her jujubes again, “I’m going to go now.”

“I still love you.”

She smiled at his search for absolution.  One day, six months ago, she had lain on top of him on the sand, her hands underneath his bright green shirtsleeves.  “I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said.  “I love you too,” he replied. 

She got her purse and stood up.  He followed her over the grass, to the glass door, through the living room and entryway, to the front door.  He opened it for her.  They walked down the three brick steps and then to the end of the path at the street.

“Will you call me?” he asked.

She stared at him. “No,” she smiled ironically.

“And if I call, you won’t answer?”

She shrugged and shook her head, “I don’t know,” she said quietly.

He grabbed her and pulled her to him, her mouth pressed against his chest.  Her arms lay rigid at her sides, her body was a board.  Every muscle was hardened beneath the skin.  He pressed her hair back with his palm and kissed her on the forehead.  He released her.  She turned from him, and crossed the street to her car, hopping in right foot then left.  She started the car and drove down the street, looking straight ahead.  She knew he was watching her, but she never looked once.  He stood in front of his house on the street, legs slightly apart and arms at his sides.  He stood for a long time facing the end of the street, and then he turned around, walked in even steps back to his house, went inside, and closed the door.

And she focused only on the road ahead of her because she didn’t want to cry.

Funny, they all seemed like they didn’t matter.  Like perhaps sitting there, on the sand, clutching her knees, she was now hollow and really only an outline of shape, the very most outside layer of skin  She read somewhere that Dostoyevsky always had an idea with skin around it and maybe that was what she was, an idea with skin.  Somehow everything else that was supposed to be there had fluttered out somewhere and she knew, more importantly, she was sitting on a beach she’d never sit on again.  She knew vaguely that the world was more than just this island, that beyond these trees and rocks and mountains, there were more trees and rocks and mountains that meant something, that she was supposed to live in.  She knew that even though the world was a big place she could only live in her own and that was the problem because she, she, she wanted to touch every tree and rock and ocean and have it mean something, have her mean something to it, she wanted to be greater than herself, to spread and to take over, to give and to conquer and she wanted to say at the end of the day, “I have seen, I have explored” and she wanted the words to ring deep, to resonate with every person.  She looked out at the horizon, an invitation, but she knew the sad truth that every person on this earth has their own world, and how can one break that down?  Because before every head hits every pillow, it thinks about itself, and it is this that makes the world a lonely place .  It is a solitary mission to live, so why not isolate yourself?  Why be in a crowd?  Because alone you can be whatever you want to be…but in a crowd it is just so hard to survive. 

She spread her fingers in the sand and watched her hand stretch and make a home.  She looked at it for awhile the sand slightly raised in between fingers. And she felt for a moment that she extended in the space and touched people, that all over the world there were those whom she loved and who loved her, that shooting out and attaching her web to others made her significant, made her matter, made her feel like she was changing something somewhere, that people understood her, that they knew, that she could make a difference, that happiness that was pure joy that was words she knew she could say, that she could take a pen and write a journey. 

Her palm would leave a mark when she left but she didn’t want to picture the imprint, just the hand in the sand.  She pushed herself up with the hand, stood up and wiped her palms back and forth to shake the sand off; she dusted off her dress and smoothed it down.  She got into her little red boat and rode back to the curly haired man, took her suitcase back up the steep hill and onto the next train.  And she sat on the train and felt the world rumble beneath her.