At the Edge

Elias sat perched in his seat, eyes intent on the vast stretch of water that melded into the horizon. The tides were forceful, smashing the rising waves against a blanket of fine, white sand. He raised his coffee to his lips and savored the bluntness of the morning, the familiar taste of resolution. He wanted something beyond grasp, a fleeting thought that retreated with the pull of the water back into its primordial depths. His instinct was to follow, rocking with the steady drone of the ocean. It was a gentle lulling that bought time for his convictions to take form. Carmen, his obedient companion, bit her lower lip. She sensed the inadequacies of the situation. She felt the anxiety of the motion.

“We should move here,” a hesitancy, “back to Veracruz,” she mumbled in the direction of the blue expanse.

Without looking at her, he replied, “I can’t give up my livelihood in Florida. And you know I can’t bring it here.”

“Why?” she whispered, failing to recognize the extent of the limitations.

The roar of the ocean drowned out the need for a response.

The confines of middle age had boxed Elias into his present circumstance, one wrought with broken relationships, the problems of his teenaged kids and soon-to-be step-kids, and the burgeoning financial demands of his seemingly successful restaurant. Carmen had been the buoy that kept him afloat. She was perfunctory, kind, eager to please and cared for his whims. She held a part-time job at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, an angelic presence, if not for her perpetual frown. He loved her. He had convinced himself of the peremptory emotion. It had given him a chore in protecting her. He was willing to trade chores for purpose.

With his hand, he tousled her shoulder-length hair, the ends of it a burnt orange, remnants of an ill-conceived attempt to morph into a blonde. It had not occurred to him that it was a manifestation of her insecurities. Elias had retreated from his roots long ago. From twenty-something on, he had sought the enticements of fair-skinned American girls, eschewing his heritage and ignoring the charms of the Mexican women who preferred his attention. But she was different. Carmen had provided a path of salvation, one that could lead him back to a place akin to home. There was a chance to reconnect with the boy he had lost, a needed opportunity to chase peace, which had been sorely missing in his daily steps. She leaned closer to his touch and he kissed her gently on the forehead, the ocean wind whipping the strands of her hair against his face. In that split second, he knew his fraudulent nature would collapse the heavens. Her frown would persist. The moon’s ownership of the sea would endure.

***

Jenn watched other people’s kids frolic along the water’s edge, their playful screeches in unison with the exultant cries of the passing seagulls. The breeze carried a fine mist, followed by the intermittent pelting of sand. The tiniest granules caused the worst sting. Jenn, half-amused at the revelation, had known the cumulative effect of the nips and pricks of careless words and unintended actions. She sighed an exhalation of loss.

Pulling her long blonde hair into a messy bun, she focused on a fishing boat in the distance. It bounced and swayed languidly with the water’s constant movement. To ward off demons, she had found it advantageous to be singular in vision. If her line of sight was stationary, then her mind’s eye could wander through her personal grievances unhindered. Her mental checklist ensued. Stan was a doting partner when he wasn’t being obnoxiously facetious. Her sales job was prone to extremes, not so much of the monetary variety, but in how she related emotionally. She fought her robotic tendencies when interacting with clients. She had become immune to the rewards of winning and the despondency of defeat. She existed.

“What shall we do tonight?” Stan offered with a quick rise of his eyebrows.

Jenn tilted her head to the left, leaning away from Stan’s inquiry. She wanted to feel and be consumed by this moment, but he had interrupted her vigil.

“I don’t know,” she paused in her far away reverie, “the better question is what are we going to do for the next twenty years?”

A sad smile played along her lips, knowing she didn’t have the answer. The low hum of the ocean served as a distraction, a needed sound to fill the void.

Stan reached over to spray more sunscreen on Jenn’s exposed skin. He was thoughtful when she least expected it. For all the noise in her head, her surroundings were sublime. The sun’s rays broke through the heavy cloud cover at an angle that required a readjusting of her sunglasses. As she looked over at Stan, her heart palpitations quickened. She sensed the devil’s heart beating in sync with hers. She would self-destruct or be saved. Stan would remain vigilant in his cluelessness, and the soft footprint indentations in the wet sand would forever be washed away by the perfect reach of the water.

…

“Do you need a refill?”

“In more ways than one,” Jenn pivoted toward the question, the voice that was familiar in its newness.

Under his breath, Elias uttered, “Te ves como un ángel.”

“Pardon?” she offered with an open smile.

It captivated him, the energy that sprung from her movements. He could feel her presence in how his pulse quickened.

“I just meant to say, I mean, yes, what are you drinking?”

“An old-fashioned,” she blushed.

Jenn could feel an odd perspiration on the back of her neck. She liked the way he presented. Her new acquaintance was dressed neatly in a crisp shirt. His hands were nimble as he poured the drink. She watched intently. He pretended not to see her staring overture.

“Are you the bartender,” she asked coyly.

Smiling, he said, “No, my dear. I am the owner.”

He placed her drink on the napkin and extended his hand, “Elias Reyes.”

Her countenance glowed a sharper tone of pink, “I’m Jennifer. Jenn though…that’s what everyone calls me.”

“Like the rose,” he said as their hands met, leaning into her magnetism.

“Or an angel,” she said with a wry grin.

He had been outplayed by his admission.

“Ahhh, I have to watch what I say,” he winked, “and what brings you here to my restaurant? Are you alone?” It was an unintended forwardness, a way of knowing.

“Oh, I’m waiting for friends. We’re having a few drinks, a bite to eat. We’ve always talked of trying this place,” she clipped her words, the nervousness transparent.

In those blurred moments, she felt alive. She wanted to convey to him a sentiment, to let him know that there was nothing better than this unexpected convergence.

“I was at the beach this past weekend,” she paused in the insecurity of sharing her thoughts, “and there was this competing juxtaposition of being an insignificant force while feeling like I might go on forever. I wanted to be more…I wanted to be like the ceaseless tides. I felt like it could happen. Surreal…”

They looked at each other with a discreet directness. He was drawn to her abrupt charms and the way she fidgeted with the truths.

“And you were at the edge?” He posed it as a question, but it felt like a statement.

“Yes, that’s it….right at the edge,” her thoughts trailed back to the present.

She took a sip of her drink. The alcohol was stout and lingered on her tongue.

“To be honest, I feel the same right now.”

Nodding in agreement he said, “They say fate and chance are kin. Each plays their role. Hell and heaven are but a breath apart. It’s what you do when you’re at the edge that matters.”