by Madeline Lee
Written on: 15th February (forty-six days past 2022)
I open my eyes and find myself sitting in a coastal restaurant, its wooden façade bleached white from years of sea breeze and sun. Mist-like rays had glazed me, softening the mud under me and decorating the stones that lined our way with a delicate sheen.
I was here to watch in amazement as another of my major periods dashed past, years torn from the calendar at an alarming rate. I had naively assumed that my age would be nothing more than a numeric entry on a multitude of forms, until I woke to the realisation that the decade that had snuck up on me was, at least in my mind, the one that heralded the downward spiral of one’s voyage through the world. I was shocked, as though I’d uncovered a flaw in my ability to count.
I could no longer pretend it wasn’t happening.
Surely I knew how old I had been last year, so how could it now be a surprise, this birthday that was infiltrating my dreams with frames of fatalism? People no longer contradicted me when I joked about the lines etched into my face. I didn’t think it was funny either.
I had come to this place to mark the day; to walk into the sea mist and hide under umbrellas as the moon arced in the sky. The afternoon sand had warmed my bare feet and burned the skin on our legs, pants rolled up to the knees. Was I hoping the ocean washing up on shore would take the years away with its foamy waves? It felt like the years were mocking me as the sundrops felt like quicksilver across the water.
In a sea of strangers, I found my seat on the sidelines where I could watch the two strangers sitting under a giant television screen. The bottle redhead leaned into the woman sitting next to her and started grumbling about her flyaways. Without hesitation, the woman found a brush from her purse, removed it from its packaging and proceeded to comb out her hair. The redhead examined herself in the reflection of the television screen, found that every strand had been tamed, then pointed a gnarled finger with a blood-red nail as they shared their secret, giggling like teenagers as they turned to stare at me again.
I made my way across the bare floor of the restaurant, footsteps clattering on the surface. Heads covered with shades of grey, from steel to smoky slate, swivelled to follow our path to an empty table. It was like I’d somehow fallen into a private gathering for the elderly. Weren’t they supposed to be tucked in for the night by now?
I chose a spot between the two largest groups—a small table for two floating among this sea of curious early birds. The noise from the bar rose around us as the heads turned back to their own business, leaving us to check the menus.
Waitresses scurried around the room, young people who likely continued working in fevered dreams as they slept, unable to come down from the high such energy infuses day after day. A brunette approached me with their pad ready, the sound of the waves crashing in the background. Without even looking at their face, I ask for a glass of water. They took my order and managed a smile; one of those people who cared about what they were doing even when it would’ve been easier to do it without any emotion bleeding around the edges of such repetitive work.
The din around me grew as the televisions throughout the room competed, the football game in one corner bouncing off breaking news over the bartender’s head. A group of five on tall bar stools suddenly roared with laughter, and a bell hanging next to the cash register clanged twice.
It was happy hour, that one block of time bartenders knew when to give alcohol away before the serious drinkers showed up. Someone in a sky-blue polo shirt slapped his frail neighbour on the shoulder, nearly taking both of them to the floor. The women, sitting in front of tall glasses of iced tea or soda, a few beer mugs and cocktails littering the tables, chuckled at the sight. These people had been here a while as the clock over the door ticked its way up to six o’clock. The sun had begun gathering its golden tendrils for the night, tucking them away until tomorrow.
There is a tension that exists around people who aren’t committed to each other; a magnetic field that fluctuates and crackles like electricity. The waitress returned with my first instalment of the evening. I sipped and sat back to watch, memories tapping into my mind as dusk pressed in on the salt-streaked windows.
Passerbys sat around the outskirts of this dance, watching electronic lights flickering on and off, wondering what had happened in their life. Viewed through a prism of years, life had given me unexpected twists, leading me along paths littered with pain. I regretted much, a fact that taunts me now. There are always things we want to change, untaken paths or those that should’ve been avoided, tipping toes around the rocks that were waiting to rip us to shreds.
The noise escalated as the evening spun on until it was difficult to do anything but watch. The crowds wandered and flowed into each other, a movement in the window catching my attention as I inspected the glass. Someone with sombre creases etched into their face came near me, their heavily-veined hands frozen in space. They sat out of the action, perhaps waiting to join in on the fun. I turned to them as I took a sip, wondering why I hadn’t noticed someone crowding so close to me.
It was night, the sky’s natural hue veiled in the ascending ochre and conciliatory pink dusk of the sky’s horizon. Even if starting and ending with a dawn and sunset are clichés, I felt that sincerity and conviction—a sugary earnestness that resists being curdled into bitterness—were essential. Simple joys like this were what I was after.
I turned back, searching in the reflection of these people who could continue enjoying life. I looked for their face, the ones revealing so much uncertainty. The image clicked into focus. And that somebody holding themselves apart, from all of their distance coming from within, was me.