We drove out to the ocean on a Sunday. A bright, breezy afternoon tainted only with the knowledge that we had to work the next day. We stood at the western edge of the continent. House-sized waves crashed upon our volcanic pedestal with a violence that reminded us of our smallness.
It wouldn’t be a big fall from where we stood, but it would be impossible to return from that roiling pit.
You stood with your back to me, facing the ocean. I, too, took in the ocean for a time until my eyes trained upon you and your profile from behind. I wasn’t unhappy in our relationship, but on that day, I couldn’t help myself from wondering what else the world had to offer.
You looked back at me and smiled. The ocean had brought you to this place of stillness, of equanimity. Yet when I looked out, all I could see was a wide-open expanse without meaning or consequence.
The ocean surged with the rising tide.
You had no way of knowing this, but I sensed we would not be together much longer. I was relieved and, I’m afraid to say, I was not sorry.