Page 33 of Spicy Ever After
The electric chug of my Singer. The whir of the bobbin winder. They call me in.
I can feel them hum in my skull. Rhythmic. Steady. Soothing.
“Mmm…Mmmm…Mmmm…Mmmm…”
I’m. So. Tired.
So tired, I commit the mortal sin of putting my elbows on the table and then my head in my hands.
After I cover my ears, the protests from my mother and grandmother are just smears of sound.
“Mmm…Mmmm…Mmmm…Mmmm…”
When we went to Pfeiffer Beach on our trip to California, we watched the waves hurl themselves onto shore, smashing against the great black outcrops. The rocks just glistened, shedding diamond chip droplets, cupping little tidepools in their crags, their great hulking bodies unbothered by the ceaseless Pacific.
I had envied them their peace. Their strength. Their rest.
I want to rest like a timeless rock on the California shore, baking in the sun and unmoved by the frantic tides for forty million years.
A buzz tickles my thigh.
Beach rocks don’t have thighs, so I ignore it.
I am a craggy, metamorphic rock, rooted in the sea. Humpback whales have sung to me for millennia. I have watched stars in the night sky wink out like spent Edison bulbs. Pterodactyls are now ospreys who nest in my outcrops. My friend, the wind, rips away the shrieks of gulls.
Buzz.
Another tickle.
Hmm.
My back has baked in the sun for eons. Maybe it would feel good under bare feet. Maybe someone with a medley of golden hair and rare amber eyes. He could stretch out on my smoothest flanks and soak up the heat I’ve held for so long.
Drink me into him.
It would feel good.
I allow my head to tilt downward in my hands. Just enough for my face to wake my phone’s screen.
Beck: Hell, yes, it’s a real date.
Beck: Just not quite the caliber you deserve.
Do beach rocks shiver with thrills?
I want to be a rock.
But maybe I want to be the person Beck is texting, too.
Making the effort to reach for my phone is harder than it should be. I deserve a medal.
Me: HAVE YOU EVER WANTED TO JUST BE A ROCK??
The flow of conversation around the table lets me know my family has moved on, essentially pretending I’m not here.
Which is both a gift and a punishment at the same time.
Beck: A rock? I don’t think so. I’ve wanted to be a dog before. Does that count?
