Tacos

It’s after work when we meet up. We start down the winding streets of the coast, to a small taco stand. We both get shrimp with fresh corn salsa and laugh at the coincidence. He is looking around, nervous to see someone he knows.

The sun is doing that thing it does where it makes everything look bright yet filtered at the same time, it’s grazing my shoulder as we sit waiting for our food.

I’m wearing a skinny-strapped long summer dress, black and white. My hair is getting long and for once in my life I’m tan. Red lipstick stains the tortilla as I take a bite of my taco. I glance up and catch him watching the way the light is dancing off my skin and it makes me feel high. I feel beautiful. His eyes are lit up with the sunlight too and for a moment I think he forgets that we are in public, together. He smiles and takes a huge bite, corn salsa falling out of his mouth as we both laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

We start to walk back to the room but neither of us is ready to be inside so we head for the beach instead. The hotel has beach access so we go straight to the sand. He’s holding a beer in one hand and grabs mine in the other as he walks towards the sparkling green water. It splashes up to my knees and I hold my breath from the sheer cold of it, remembering the night I almost waded in and never looked back.

He lets go of my hand for a moment and reaches down into it with the curiosity of a small child, pulls up a shell and smiles. There’s a chip on his one front tooth and it’s so cute. He hands me the shell. We start walking and there are tide pools and inlets. We wade in and splash around. We find a cave and he takes my picture in it. It’s a terrible picture. I take his, and I look at it when no one is around. His eyes like the sky.

That night we kiss for what seems like forever then listen to dashboard confessional until we are both drunk and sleepy.

I tell him I can’t have babies. That my body has betrayed me and there is so much wrong with me. That my husband doesn’t love me anymore. He tells me his wife is having an affair. She is his high school sweetheart. He doesn’t know what to do. Neither do I. I cry and smoke on the balcony. He drinks too much and smells like alcohol. He tells me we should just run away. Fuck it. Then the sun is coming up and we stop talking and I know I will be late to work.

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Categories: Addiction, Anxiety, bipolar disorder, Depression, Mania, Materialism, Mental Health, OCD, Self Esteem, self-care, Writing

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