Encounter by the sea

She glowed in the soft light of the night, as if she had stolen the moon’s radiance and hidden it within her skin. There she sat, her face directly across from me, gazing off into the night, searching for the horizon. It was wonderful to see her like that; I wanted to tell her so, but my mind wouldn’t let me.

She had already been walking back and forth for eleven hours, working herself to the bone for a measly wage and a crowd of stuffed tourists. It was late; I was sitting on “her” terrace and asked if she ever got anything to drink during the day. She told me her boss only let her drink tap water, so I offered her a Richie’s, and that’s how she ended up sitting at my table for a while.

A shiver ran through me when she said how sweet that was. For a moment, a thought brought me to a halt because I remembered that whenever a woman used the word “sweet” with me, it usually ended badly, but the red wine caressed my palate powerfully. All taste was sucked from my tongue, so that my mouth, completely numb, wouldn’t utter any foolish words, and at the same time I lost control of my negative thoughts. From that moment on, every word I managed to utter to her became an enchantment, a symbol, an expression of a repressed consciousness—the little boy inside me who made jokes, listened, and empathized. She could smile wonderfully broadly, skip away when she needed to, after which she served with a spark yet remained elegant. She was beautiful, smooth, playful, but was she also honest? That little fear kept me at a distance and at the same time drew me toward her; I could only truly get to know her if I dared to open myself up—so far, my self-help conclusion.

That night, through a few deliberate choices—and what seemed like a coincidence to her—we ran into each other again on the beach. She was pleasantly surprised; we walked a bit, and since she was already so tired, she invited me to the studio she was renting near the seawall. A simple space, white walls, with just a small painting of a large ship’s mast on one, followed by a kitchenette with a fridge and a separate room with a shower.

“Want something to drink?”
“Water is fine.”

She gave me a glass of water and poured herself one too. She dropped a few ice cubes in it, and we sat down on the couch.

“I often see you sitting there with a book and a glass of wine.”
“Yeah, that’s my way of disappearing for a bit—into words, into stories, away from… well, the world as it is.”
“You’re different. Different from those guys out here on the terrace who want to pinch my behind or ask for my Instagram right away.”

I smiled. Yeah, no, I might want to, but I wouldn’t dare, and certainly not if I didn’t know her yet, or hadn’t had a normal conversation with her.

“It’s actually the first time I’ve come across someone like you here. All alone, reading a book, and so well-mannered. I think you have an old soul.”
“Thank you, unfortunately I feel that way sometimes too.”
“You certainly don’t look like it. More like a scared little boy,” she said teasingly.
“You know, I was adopted at a young age; I haven’t seen my real father in over 15 years. That makes me cautious and thoughtful—that’s how I dealt with my parents’ divorce, always thinking before I said anything. My real dad could explode at the most ungodly moments, and my mom would run away. And I’ve learned to hold back, sometimes a little too much, so it weighs on my mind.”

She paused for a moment and took my arm, as if for support.

“You’re pretty intense right off the bat, uh, we’ve only just met and you’re already an open book.”
“Sorry, it doesn’t happen often that I meet someone who actually intends to listen.”

She smiled. I went on, telling her about how I got a new father and a new name, how we moved far away and I had to adjust all over again, to a different school with people who spoke differently and had different customs than I did, the little boy who came from a big city.

She listened. But the conversation didn’t go on very late, because it was already past midnight and she had to start early the next day. I wanted to tell her so much, so I flooded her with concepts like “illusions, (de)constructions, flawed rituals”—in short, all the dark spots burned into my soul.

The night was too short, and behind every word with which I overwhelmed her lay another night. I don’t know if she understood much of it—she gave that impression—and I sometimes thought I might be overdoing it; bombarding someone with your own intellectual and emotional ramblings might not always be such a good idea. Meanwhile, she took a Frisco from the fridge, offered me one too—which I refused—and sipped the red, with its yellow and orange sculpture shaped like a rocket. She let her breath expand into smoky, sensual shapes, only to have them float around me in slender arms to cradle me.

It went too fast, it was too short, but I knew now that she had a feeling I was looking for, something that would make us both stronger.

We said goodbye and decided to see each other again the next day, after her work; it would also be the last night I could stay here in Nieuwhaven. I had to see her again before I left with my parents.