Beach Day

Sitting in her beach chair, Melanie felt a drip of sweat slither down her back and into the crevice of her derriere. Sweat seemed to be dripping from all the usual anatomical sources: her arm pits, her forehead, her upper lip. The heatwave the weather forecasters predicted had arrived. For the next four days, temperatures would climb to the upper nineties or even over a hundred. The humidity would rise uncomfortably.

But it was feeling her rear end spill over the back edge of her seat that bothered her more than the heat. The overflow seemed worse than last year. How much weight had she gained? She sipped her white wine, cleverly disguised in her Yeti insulated cup. She’d already used all her allotted vacation time, so she called in sick to work and took this early August day to go to the beach. She’d call out sick again tomorrow too. She firmly believed calling out two days in a row would be more convincing to others that she wasn’t faking an illness.

Looking around, she couldn't imagine a more perfect beach day. The brilliant blue sky was cloudless, the ocean calm. This beach had been their place when she was part of a they. She and Adam had spent lazy days here, going back to the hotel around four for a little rumble in the bed sheets. Adam always chose the restaurant they’d go to, and they’d have after-dinner drinks at a bar. She’d hold Adam’s arm as she walked, unsteadily, back to their hotel.

A couple in deep conversation walked with arms touching, hands clasped. They stopped at the water’s edge directly in front of Melanie. The woman looked to be in her thirties and wore a pink bikini thong. Her round butt cheeks, on full display, were dimpled with the slightest bit of cellulite. Her little bump of a belly was the only other imperfection Melanie could find. She was stunning; her long brown hair, framed in golden highlights, reached the thin string of her bikini top. Melanie dragged the back of her hand across her forehead and upper lip, then wiped the sweat on her tankini bathing suit. How come she’s not sweating? Melanie wondered.

The man was about four inches taller than the woman and donned bright orange swimming trunks that were a tad too big for him. The shadow of his ass crack appeared just above the sagging waistband. His broad shoulders, arms, and back showed off well defined muscles that rippled when he moved. His tan was the color of well-oiled teak.

God, are they still talking? What could they possibly be talking about? Every conversation with Adam had been transactional. Did you pick up the dry cleaning? Yes. How was your doctor’s appointment? Good. This couple was so different than she and Adam had been. Deep in conversation, the man stroked the woman’s hair, then her face. Melanie leaned forward, hoping they’d kiss, but they just kept talking. Melanie reached for the other half of her Italian sub and dumped the remainder of the chips on the open sandwich wrapper. She took a big bite then turned her attention back to the couple.

This man, for some reason, reminded her of Adam. Maybe it was the way he used his hands as he talked. At neighborhood cookouts, she’d watch him chat with others, his hands animating the story. She didn’t see his hands move like that when he talked to her during the last year of their marriage. His back looked a little bit like her ex-husband’s, though Adam never lifted weights in his life. This guy definitely hit the gym. Adam’s back was hairy, not smooth like this man’s. Why the hell is Adam in my head? It had been four years since the divorce. He rarely crept into her consciousness anymore.

Melanie contemplated rising for a swim in the ocean but chose to sweat in silence rather than walk past Mr. and Mrs. Perfect. She’d wait them out. She drained her Yeti, then pulled out the nearly empty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the cooler. Is that bottle almost gone already? She held the icy bottle to her face, rolling it over her cheeks to cool down. She then refilled her tumbler to a disappointing level, then tossed the empty bottle in her beach bag. It landed label up, exposed like a dead soldier on the battlefield.

"It's the drinking, Mel. I can't take the drinking." She and Adam had many conversations about “the drinking,” the most serious of which occurred after she dented the garage door after a night out with friends. “I just tapped it!” she told him. “It’s no big deal! My car just got a little scratch.” When he declared it was a big deal and that the garage door now needed to be replaced and her Audi fixed, she swore she’d change. Drink less. Not touch hard liquor. Only drink on Friday and Saturday nights. Never drink and drive. After a few days of keeping her word, she’d go back to her usual ways.

One night, Adam got home from work late. She was sipping her third cosmopolitan, with an icy shaker next to her holding the fourth. Tortilla chips spilled out of the bag in front of her. If Adam had texted her his ETA as he usually did, the night would have ended differently. She’d have put away the liquor bottles, washed and put away her martini glass and shaker, then she’d have crawled into bed and pretended to be asleep. The prior 43 days, she’d been alcohol free. But that night, the itch at the back of her throat had been relentless and she thought, What's the big deal if I have one?

Adam held her gaze, then eyed the shaker, the half-filled martini glass, the chips. Without a word, he retreated to the spare bedroom and left as soon as he found an apartment. Eleven months later she was single after a sixteen-year marriage.

From her beach chair, drenched in an uncomfortable sweat, Melanie raised her cup in a toast to no one. Good riddance, Adam. My life is so much better! No one to make me feel guilty. No sarcastic comments about how many wine bottles are in the recycle bin. You’re not here to be the sunscreen police, or to block my view while adjusting the umbrella to shade me. I get to decide where I want to go to eat tonight - I don't have to compromise on anything!

Just then the couple turned and walked toward Melanie on the way to the parking lot. Melanie drained her tumbler as they neared her. She caught her breath and stood quickly. The beach chair fell back. Lettuce, onion, deli meat and chips lay scattered at her feet. "Adam?" she said.

The man and the woman kept walking.

“Adam?” she said louder.

The man stopped, turned. He held her gaze, then eyed the overturned chair behind her, the sandwich contents scattered in the sand, the empty wine bottle in her beach bag. He shook his head and headed toward the parking lot.