One Day Last Summer

It was July. And the whole night had been hot. Too hot to hold each other like rope.

It had only been a few weeks since this whole thing had started; so we still felt like something very new coming out of a very used box. We woke up in a sweat. Each of us had nothing concrete to do, for the day, but both of us had a long list of self-imposed artistic chores that we hoped would validate us. Maybe because of the sweat, or the heat, or the need to touch each other, we both decided to get in my car and head to Malibu—instead.

And so we left towards a beach he hadn’t been to before where he would wear his underwear and I would wear my bathing suit, but feel uncomfortable in my body—with too much shape.

In the sand he told me stories about doing shrooms with his two Indian friends—back in San Francisco—and how they almost got eaten up, right off a pile of rocks, by the bay. As he spoke, his arms flailed about like a conductor and I remember thinking how much I loved this brokenness he carried around with him.

But I hated his ex-girlfriend. I hated the idea of her. His idea of her. That would be something I’d never get passed.

We sweat majority of the summer: In the car ride, during the talking, on the sand, and through our whole relationship—except for that day in the water. He usually hated the water. But that day he didn’t mind. Not for a little bit.

That would be the first, and last time we ever went in the water.