Golden Dour
Gravel chatters under the tires as he eases the car off the highway. Spurred on by Helios’ race to the horizon and the two pints from Papa Wheelies, the driver hastily parks and steps out.
The waves of the Pacific nibble the coast in toothless longing a hundred yards ahead of him. With a quick inhalation, he admires the sunset from across the dunes.
Exhaling, he scans the distant beach from right to left. A woman stands in the waves at his 2 o’clock, her pink hoodie blending into the setting sun. To the left, a man tosses a ball for his golden retriever. The dog bounces into the dunes away from the spittle of the late September waves. Its paws barely make an impression as it floats over the saturated sand.
The driver scans the beach for a sheltered spot to answer nature’s call. He settles on a large fallen tree, knee-high and gnarled. With a slow ambling walk, the man pretends to soak in the beauty in front of him, but the crash of the waves beat against his bladder. His mask of casualness melts as he reaches the tree and quickly kneels, hoping neither fellow beachgoer will notice him.
He sighs and stares into the horizon.
Pressure relieved, he stands and continues a slow meander past the driftwood piles and dodge patches of grass towards the water. He sits near the water, trying to accumulate as little of the beach as he can. Sand in his sleeping bag will only exacerbate his troubled sleep.
The glowing orb accelerates its descent into the sea. The Pavlovian response seizes him and he reaches for his phone. Vacation. He snaps a few underwhelming photos and exhales once more. His uneasiness remains. In, one. Pause. Out, two. In, one. Pause. Out, two.
He closes his eyes to ease the longing that the beer, urination, or breathing exercises cannot. But, his mind continues to race. The guilt of missing the sunset quickly lifts his eyelids.
Money. Professional mediocrity. Weighty relationships. The waves mock these concerns as they beckon him. He considers it but resists. Slowly, he stands and turns. Time to keep rolling the rock up the hill.
In the distance, the man and his golden retriever climb into a Ford Sprinter van. Down the beach, the girl in the pink hoodie continues to snap selfies near the tideline, oblivious to the man’s forlorn desperation. Just as well, he supposes.
The horizon swallows the last bloody yolk of the sun and a seal head bobs carefree amongst the surf.
Brushing the sand off his shorts, he sighs and trudges back to his car, hoping the general store up the road sells Phish Food.
