They sat on the sand, the frigid air overcome by the peaceful power of the ocean breeze.   Faint lights of the golden gate bridge, the sounds of cars speeding over it, all muted by the calm February night.  Behind the couple, the last trickle of loyal tourists left Ghiradelli Square and headed home, or to a bar, both equally warm and welcoming on a brisk winter evening.  The sand was wet, and rather frosty, but they were too lost in their thoughts to care.  Not that the thoughts were warming, like love and friendship, or the pleasure of each other’s company.  Their bodies could ignore the climate, but their souls were chilled by a unified thought: We’re talking about this again.

It had been four months since they last discussed the feelings between them, or lack thereof.  She had thought they were done with it; he had never even waned.

“When was it you closed the door on us?”  He felt mildly guilty putting her on the defensive right at the beginning, but he never had been good at articulating matters of the heart.

“The night we went out for my birthday.  I was so glad you were there, being together was still fresh, you were meeting my mom.  I tried to touch you, to captivate you, to prove to my mom that I was dating nice guys out here.  There was no one else I wanted to be there more than you.  When we left, our hug lingered.  I squeezed your hand, and let my face stay close to yours.  I wanted so badly for you to kiss me.  To let me know I wasn’t crazy in this.  That you were attracted to me, that you thought I was special.  But you did what you always did; what you still do: you just smiled and turned away.  My mom wouldn’t shut up about you in the car.  How she was glad I’d found such a nice boy that could stand me.  I kept thinking about all the girls you knew.  I didn’t feel special.  I didn’t think I ever would.  So I gave up on it and turned my efforts back to something familiar, something good, something that made me feel special when it was happening.  Anything to get my mind off of you.”

Every word sounded painful.  He knew she didn’t want to talk about this.  For a brief second, he considered stopping now and walking her home.  But he couldn’t.  He would never get up the nerve to do this again; it had to be now.

“Last time we talked like this, it killed me.  When I left your place, I didn’t want to see you ever again.  I knew every time I did, I would think of what a failure I was.  How much it hurt to not get something you want so fucking bad.  I couldn’t stay away though.  I cared about you too damn much.  I needed you in my life, needed your smile, your laugh.  No other girl in the world can make me genuinely happy just by being in the same room, or on the other end of a phone call.  That may not sound like a big deal to you, but it’s huge for me.  I don’t let myself get happy, or angry or sad for that matter.  I know you thought we were done with this, and I know that’s the way you want it.  I do realize, believe it or not, that you don’t feel a damn thing for me.  But I never stopped caring.  I suppose that’s redundant right now.  The important point is that I haven’t given up on the idea that you and I can be happy together.  I don’t know that I ever can.  Even more, I don’t understand why I have to.  Every moment we spend together, I’m happy, you’re happy.  When you’re not happy, you’re comfortable crying on my shoulder, ranting for an hour on work and your dad.  When I’m not happy…well, it’s different.  I’m never happy unless I’m with you.  Every time I hear the possibility of you moving back to Boston, or when I have any feeling that I’m losing you, I feel panicky, like my heart is racing.  You are so important to me.  I know we have things in our past, both of us, that make moving on hard.  You think holding on to John for three years is bad?  I’ve been holding on to my shit for the better part of a decade.  Just in the last couple years I’ve started looking at it, dissecting it, trying to make myself better.  Then you came along, and I wanted to be ok even more.  I’m trying baby, I really am.  I’ve been waiting until the perfect moment to tell you, when I could say all this in beautiful prose and poetry, make it vivid and real and unrefusable.  But I’m not there, and I don’t know when I’ll get there.  I needed to say something, to make you understand something.”

He couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t look into her eyes.  He didn’t want to see the rejection, the stoic annoyance at the subject matter.  He tried to look into the water, into the sky, at the fucking In and Out wrapper ten feet to his right.  He saw her eyes everywhere; stars and waves mocked him, and the goddamn “John 3:16” stamp he knew was on that wrapper gave divine consent to it all.

“What is there to understand?  I told you, I don’t want a boyfriend right now.  I like hanging out with you, and I am happy when we’re together.  But it’s hard dealing with John, and it’s hard to let myself get close to someone when I know I’m leaving in a year.  I just don’t see the point.”

He didn’t know why that made him angry, it just did.  He wanted to scream at her, at the world.  What was it really standing in their way?  Was it another guy?  One who pulled the trigger, one she was attracted to?  She had been regularly happy the last few weeks, who was she fucking in the city?  Why do you think these things?  You know her, you know that’s not who she is, why can’t you just accept the fact that she doesn’t care about you? He had wanted to remain calm in this, but his anger now carried his words.

“Why can’t you just say it?  Why is it so fucking hard?  Because you think I’m gonna leave?  You think the idea hasn’t been blaring in my head this whole time?  You don’t care about me, you never did.  If that’s not true, then this is bullshit.  I fucking know you’re leaving in a year, I know it every second of every day.  But why can’t we spend that year being happy together?  I’d rather spend one fucking day being with you than another goddamn year without you.  You said yourself; you don’t know what’s going to happen in the next year, who you’ll meet, who will make you change your plans.  I don’t want my plans to change, but if I was going to change them for anyone, it’d be you.”

She moved…she actually moved away from him.  She scooted a few feet away, and made like she was going to get up.  He felt the tightness in his chest, the shortness of breath.  This was it; this was the end.  She had been slipping away from him for weeks, maybe months.  Now she was leaving forever, and all he had was the beach, the air that was getting colder by the second, and an animal style double double laughing at him.  He had to say something.

“It’s not my fucking fault, I can’t control who I care about.  You’re fucking perfect in every way.”

Her purse was on her shoulder now.  He expected, hoped, prayed she would linger, think twice about it.  She didn’t.  She was on her feet turning away as she spoke.

“Don’t you dare put this shit on me.  Things are hard enough for me here without  dealing with this every few months.  You deal with it; I can’t anymore.  I’ll call you when I need my stuff from your house.”

He didn’t even look at her as she walked away.  What had he expected?  Nothing, not a goddamn thing.  Something, anything, just not this.  He screamed now, straight from his crumbling heart, his detached soul.

“You think this changes anything?  You think walking away will make me change my mind?  I’m fucking in love with you, and I always will be.  You’ll never find anyone here who cares about you more, who’ll do more to make you happy.  You go as far away as you fucking need to, but I’ll still be in love with you.

She had turned the corner four words into it; she was gone.  Forever.  He realized it was cold now, very fucking cold.  The slight sound of the cars crossing the bridge crept into his head.  He stayed on that beach for hours, years, days.  He would never leave it, not even on the drive home, not in the next week.  He was going to burn down the next In and Out he saw.

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