by S. Ray

Suddenly bitter by the sound of other people’s voices
Saying things just to fill space, not meaning anything,
He retreated from the party to his room almost alone.

He cued up music to cover the sound through the door
And noticed she had been sitting alone in the dark.
She said little but it was meant to be friendly.

“Can I stay? I don’t know anybody in this town,
I danced for a while but I’m over it, been on the road
All day. This is your place, right?”

He suggested they take a walk down to the beach,
Brought very little, just what they’d want to be comfortable
In the cold night ocean air and fog. If there was fog.

It was late so they were alone there, neither too drunk,
Nor too sober. They did not kiss at all, nor hold hands,
But if interviewed later both would admit they would have.

He was wearing sandals and she was wearing boots,
So when they reached a stream, he carried her across proudly
On his back – the only time they touched.

When the whiskey flask was empty and they were done
She thanked him. He asked “what are you going to do now?”
She waited not long at all and said, “Oh, travel.”

In the morning he thought of her in his now empty house
One or two stragglers asleep on the couch he left
And returned to the beach, but she was long gone.