Out of Touch, Out of Time

The shade of his skin is Tourist Milk. Loud-colored trunks and a surfer shirt he’s recently purchased from Gator Gifts do little to help: everyone on the beach knows he doesn't belong. Making matters worse are lace-up sneakers and crew socks—sandals he forgot, in Wisconsin and at the gift shop.

His is the type of body to slump forward even when standing straight, the trademark of a man who's spent a lifetime staring at his shoes.

Sometimes, he goes long stretches of a day without eating so he can pretend stomach groans are her talking to him if he can't sleep.

He wasn’t there, wasn’t even aware she existed. Yet he imagines campfire flames flicking so low, the white coals barely burning at all, not even an audible crackling. So she made a drunken leap, not for a friend’s dare, but because she was there with a campfire and flight in her gut. She didn’t clear it, fell down, the skin of her hip sizzling until she finally rolled. The soft scar that stretched nearly halfway round, he’d kissed with eyes closed so many times and never enough.

The sun beats high-noon bright as he peels off his new shirt, purposely bought one size too small. Another vain attempt to fit in.

Into his hand, he squirts thick sunscreen, not suntan lotion, the final giveaway this is not where he’s supposed to be. But he knows that. So he smears the gunk all over his face and balding head, the tender tips of his ears, aware of the price that follows burn.

Boys and girls kick sand up with their heels, two surfers carry well-waxed boards into the breakers, and he sits in the sand. On a buy-one-get-one beach towel he won’t have room to pack in his luggage.


**Part of this piece found inspiration in a phrase from a story written by Richard Bausch: "All the Way in Flagstaff, Arizona." Which I haven't finished yet. Because, you know, inspiration struck and there were like 15 pages left to read. Also, the title for this piece is completely hijacked from my favorite Hall & Oates song.

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