Bye the Beach

Swallow That Feeling 

In the morning, when you awaken, and you watch my chest, I feel your eyes piercing me. Something about that look, the way you don’t move. I feel that red boiling in your heart. I feel the bed shake when you finally get up, after your third alarm. I feel you hopping as you squeeze into your tight work pants. And I feel the force behind the door when you close it. And I feel that you know I’m awake, that I don’t want to open my eyes, scared of what you might say.  

Today, when that door closes, as with all other days, I open my eyes. Today, you’re not on the other side. You’re standing in front of it, I blink, but you don’t. You glare, and that steam rises from your skin. Your skin itself glistening in the morning sun that shines through our still-broken blinds. You redden in your face and swallow hard, and I know you’re holding back tears and then I swallow too. You begin to speak but your throat clogs up, just a squeak, you clear your throat and try again,  

“We should...” and I dread the next words that will come from your mouth, “go somewhere,” you say, and my heart softens, and I feel evil. Evil that I can’t face you in the morning, because I don’t want it to change, but I want so badly for something to change. And my head is spinning and I don’t know what to say so you speak again, “A holiday,” then I don’t know what to do, I sit up carefully, slowly, and I think you know what I’m going to say so you reply before I get the chance, “I can pay...I...” you pause and step forward, “I have paid,” you sit by my legs, “I bought a car,” my mouth opens a fraction and you bite your lip, “It’s one of those old hippy vans. We can sleep in the back,” I rub at my nose and I don’t know how much longer the tears can be held back. You lean into me, “This isn’t some bullshit excuse to leave this room, this house with these people. This is...this is me wanting to know you...better than I did before,” your eyes flash to my legs, “This is...” your hands form a circle, your tears begin to crawl, “This is something we need to do, or we won’t make it much longer,” then you kiss me and stand again, “Think about it,” you say as you open the door, you shrug and shake your head and I reach out but you don’t see it, and the door closes. Lightly.  

I feel...love?  

Or Let it Out 

I let the tears fall then and I find myself lying down once more, and I fall asleep. When I wake up again, I get out of bed, sliding my legs out from under the blanket and into the wheelchair waiting for me. I move to the IKEA clothes rack with our clothes hanging in the middle of the room, no space for a wardrobe. Sometimes you do this part, mostly I want to be independent, I want to feel in control, that should we…I still want to be able to do everything. Sometimes when you offer, or when you start doing it without asking first, I clench my teeth and grit away the helplessness. I manage just fine today, though should have showered. I leave our room, into the shared kitchen, find it empty; good. I prepare sandwiches, tie them up back in the bag they come. I know we’ll want drinks, so I get ready to go to the shops. I don’t need shoes obviously, but it’s not proper to leave the house without them. Slide-ons are easiest.  

Keys, wallet, deodorant, and the front door is behind me. I glide down the makeshift ramp in the driveway that no-one has complained about, I know why they haven’t. I have no other way of entering my own house without it, still, it blocks the driveway. Two cars parked out the front, and three bikes in the driveway. The shops are hardly a block away, why we moved here in the first place. I make my way down the road, a guy tries not to look, another makes direct eye contact and nods slightly, as if to say, “Good job on keeping going.” I try to ignore them all. The milk bar is too narrow for me, so I ask someone out the front to get the owner to come out to me. He does, greets me, and asks what I’d like. I tell him some soft drink, orange juice – your favourite –, and a block of milk chocolate – my favourite –. He obliges with a “No worries.” He comes back with it all in a bag, hands it to me, says how much I owe and waits a minute for me to rummage around in my half-empty wallet for the cash. He doesn’t look annoyed, but I know people. I hand him the cash, with some coins, smile, and I return home. 

The waiting is what makes it so hard. I should have spent more time doing things, slowed down, gone around the block to get the drinks. Now I’m just sitting here eating my chocolate – would’ve melted in the car. I keep checking the time, as if it’ll speed up if I do. You’re home at three, our shared calendar tells me, and I can’t just sit around, waiting to see what you’ll say. It’s eating at me. So, I decide I will take that shower, maybe I’ll check out Savers around the corner, at least the rows are wide enough. The shower always takes longer without you there, and I have to do my exercises without you too. I forgot to do them before getting in, and I realised midway through and hopped out so I won’t get sweaty doing them right after I’ve showered. I use the roller under my leg, pushing and pulling it up and back, switch legs, do it again. Then I pull my thighs up to my chest, let it flop down, wiggle my toes for a minute, clenching from the pain the whole time and now my jaw hurts. You make that easier too. Easier to deal with anyway. Back in the shower, I take my time, sitting and thinking for too long. Someone uses a tap in the other end of the house, and I can’t get out of the way quick enough and have to endure the freezing cold for a moment. I decide to get out then, and I dry off, shave what little stubble has grown overnight, get dressed again, chuck my undies in the hamper and sit back out in our room.  

Savers then. Keys, wallet, don’t need the deodorant this time, and the front door is behind me. I glide down the ramp, past the bikes, up the street, around the block, taking my time now. I ignore the few people I pass by, a kid gawks and that’s hard to ignore but it’s fine, I get it. Her mother takes no notice. Savers have a student day, where you get 20% off or something, I suppose that was today since there’s a bunch more student-age people than normal. They’re not really the type to take notice of me, which is good, but that also means they block the rows a bit more than others. I pretend I don’t care every time I have to wait for someone to notice me and move, but I’m mostly constrained to the back corner, the tiny section that is the Men’s, so it’s not as bothersome when you’re not here. I find a singlet for myself that could be good for the warmer weather coming up, and I find for you, looking only along the jackets, a grey/black cropped jacket with zips and little pockets on the sleeves. There are strips of iridescent fabric arrayed around the jacket, its clearly second-hand but you always say character comes through hardship. I don’t need to think about it before the jacket joins the singlet in my lap. Comes out to $21.39 in total, even without the student discount.  

When I get home, checking the time, I think that you’ll be on your way home now. Shorter shifts, you say, are a pain in the ass, because they’re much easier and you prefer them, but you get so much less money. At least today is a Sunday and you’ll get extra. I put the jacket out by the singlet, want to know your opinion on them both once you’re home.  

And Make Way 

I know it’s you come home ‘cause I hear the clunky new car you told me about, and your bike was still in the drive. Didn’t wait to let me see it last night, this morning, so you’ve kept it a surprise on purpose. I’ve got the snacks ready, drinks in an Esky I’ve borrowed off a housemate, chocolate’s gone. I was playing a game, but I set it down, turn the console off, spin around and make sure the singlet and jacket are still out, as if I’d have accidentally put them away somewhere while playing the game. You open the front door, I hear your footsteps, the anxiety is rising and I can feel my heart pumping blood to my useless legs. The door opens and you lean your head in slowly, and find me smiling awkwardly at you. You smile in return, genuine though, which turns mine into one too. I wait for you to say something as you close the door behind you. That’s what I normally do, but, I decide that I don’t want to do that, and just as you’re about to speak, I spit out, “How was work?” 

Your surprise makes me feel, tingly? I watch your whole body for reaction, and you satisfy. You tense your calves and go to sit on the bed, seeing the clothes there you stop yourself and pick up the jacket, “You went out?” you ask. 

I nod and gesture to the jacket, “You like it?” 

“Lots of zips,” The way you said it makes me bite my lips, crawling into myself, before you say, “it’s really cool,” you stare at the zips, at the strips of iridescent material, and I stare at you. You say, “Looks like some cyberpunk thing. It’d go with my cargo skirt, ooh, or maybe the grey cargo pants.”  

You twist your work shirt off and slip into the jacket, the sleeves end with elastic, and you have to push your hands through the too small opening, then it tightens back up around your wrists and you twirl your arms around looking over the sleeves. “So? You like it?” I ask. 

You smile and say, “Of course I do.”  

I realise I’ve been smiling the whole time, and it goes away, but…it was a good thing, right? So, it returns in earnest and your face wrinkles and wriggles while you try to figure out what that was about. I say, “It fits.” 

You bite your bottom lip like you used to and fall to your knees to lean in and kiss me. It always felt wrong when you did that, but I really couldn’t care less in that moment. It occurs to me with your lips on mine, that I’m not sure why I’ve done anything today, you didn’t say you wanted to go on a holiday right away, we didn’t plan anything. I don’t understand why it’s even affected me, why should this holiday fix the broken thing in our lives? Why…you lean away. “Kiss me back, you idiot,” I can’t help but smile, and you lean in again.  

You take me into the shower with you despite my objections, that I’ve already showered, but all you say is, “Can’t hurt,” and drag me in behind you. You sit opposite me, wash my legs, ask about my exercises, massage the stiffness away, and you work the muscles around my jaw too, having a physio girlfriend has its ups and downs. You can help me out, but you also tend to know every little thing that makes me tick, so you want to control them, avoid those things. Sometimes…I want to be me, me alone from you. But now, right now, where I can feel my legs because of the pressure you’ve put on them, where my jaw feels relaxed; it fits.  

For Something Better 

It’s strange that I believed you’d want to leave right away, not wait a few days, prepare and pack. But I was right. You’d packed a sponge bag in the morning, while I lay in bed with my eyes shut. Now you pack away the singlet I bought for myself, folding it nicely after cutting the tag off because, although you’ve got the strength to tear it off, you say, “Still don’t want to hurt my fingers,” hold up a pair of scissors you keep in the top drawer of your nightstand, and say, “What’s the point of these if not for this?” You don’t even let me show you what I look like in the singlet, just say, “I know you look good,” and slide it into the suitcase we used to move in.  

You let me show you the contents of the Esky, how I packed it doesn’t fit your standards and you rearrange it so that your orange juice is on the bottom, easier for me to get to my stuff on the top and you didn’t even think about it. I know that I haven’t been great the past year, or however long it’s been. But, just…I know you understand. I know you know why.  

You sit the Esky on my lap, lead me outside with the suitcase at your side on all four wheels. The car looks about ready to rust, but it’s big, big enough to fit the wheelchair and a shitty old mattress from an op shop. It’s got faded paint all over it, something to do with weed, painted over poorly with a yellowing white. You chuck the suitcase in the back, right on the mattress but against the side so it doesn’t move about too much, then you lead me to the passenger side and I start to get in and notice you watching. Normally, that’s how I’d want it, but I can see better now, and I say, “Could use a hand,” and you hurry over. I watch you wheel my chair around to the back, fold it up, and slip it onto two metal rods that I can see you’ve installed yourself, something maybe I could’ve helped you with but; it fits.