By Christi Withers
Ray rose to the sound of waves and a train’s clickety-clack as it crossed the trestle bridge over Jalama Creek. The train’s melancholy whistle faded as it headed south. This is it, Ray thought. Everything has been said. They were through.
Patti was still asleep, gently snoring as she lay tucked away in her queen size be at the tail of the couch. Ray could see her slender form, the dip in her waist where he’d rest his arm when they lay together. She used to wake him when she was restless and they would caress each other back to sleep. Now he ruminated in the front of the RV in the crow’s nest bed above the driver’s seat. He knew she needed space. She’d been telling him so for over a year.
Ray sneaked out to watch the Milky Way wash brightly across the midnight sky and hoped for a sign. He believed in signs. Tonight the big dipper hung oddly in the north with its handle pointing straight down from its scoop and Jupiter hid behind the hill. Ray surrendered and headed back to bed until it was light enough to pack up.
As the sun broke over the coast range, Ray quietly climbed down from his perch, pulled on his jeans, slipped into his Uggs and swung the door open. He walked behind the RV and watched his pee steam rise in the icy morning air.
When he finished, he folded a bright Hawaiian print cloth and then the camp chairs.
Everything had looked perfect the night before. He’d attempted a romantic dinner— a roaring fire in the cast iron pit, an expensive bottle of wine, perfectly grilled steaks. Another failed attempt at reconciliation.
At sunset, before their dinner, Ray and Patti had smoked some weed on the bluff above the beach. He’d hoped it would relax them and allow their differences to float off like the curls of smoke. But the effect had only isolated them.
“We’ll get through this,” he’d assured her. “Remember what the counselor told us. All marriages have their yin and yang.” He had reached for her hand.
“I can’t fall in love again. It doesn’t work like that.” Patti pulled away.
When the sun dipped below the sea and the light disappeared, she turned toward the water. “Where is the bright green flash?” she’d said. “Everyone always promises a flash but I’ve never seen it.”
Ray watched her walk back to the RV. The air chilled quickly when the sun disappeared.
Everything had been said. She’d rented an apartment and would move the end of the month. She feigned sadness, but Ray now knew it to be pity. She’d made a decision. He sensed her relief. He was the procrastinator.
They’d sell the RV. Neither one of them could afford the payments alone. The house, too. That’s how these things worked. What about their plans for the future, he wondered? The trip to Yellowstone? He’d always wanted to see Yellowstone.
After he finished packing, Ray walked to the beach for a last look at the rocky coast. The tide retreated slowly, pulled by the last evening’s faint white moon.
Christie Withers was born on the Central Coast of CA, lived in Fairbanks Alaska for 20 years where she raised her daughters, co-owned a hardwood lumber company with her late husband, and then Graduated from University of Alaska with a BA in English. She returned to the Central Coast in 1999. Christie is a member of SLO NightWriters, for writers at all levels in all genres. Find them online at slonightwriters.org.
