Stories

“That game is for little kids,” he says, dismissing the idea.

And I think, Then why are we still playing?

On a Sunday night, he asks me if I want to go to the beach. I’m a little surprised by the offer, but I decide to take him up on it anyway. It’s been so long since the two of us went anywhere together.

We slip on our sandals and head out the door, throwing our designated beach blanket into the trunk before we take off.

Even though it’s late September, the air is still warm and we open the sunroof to let the salt-laden moonlight into the car. The tourists have all left by this time of year, so we can count on quiet solitude. We take the big, arching drawbridge over the intercoastal waterway and we slow down as the car eases onto the flat, sandy island. He parks the car in its usual spot, under the young Queen palm and wordlessly we get out, me grabbing the blanket from the trunk and him locking up the car and dropping change into the meter. A slow and silent dance of mediocrity perfected now after years of practice.

It wasn’t always like this. There were days when the game was just beginning, and the base was still stable. Days when we cheerily took turns setting up the blocks, ignorant that in playing the game, we were bringing on our own destruction. Days when we went to the beach in the daylight during the summer, listening to music, singing along, laughing and happy to be where we were.

But the game has gone on too long and we are bored. Grudgingly, we take our time when our turn comes, tapping and poking at the pieces, trying to find the one most easily removed, always dredging up the past into the uppermost layer of the present. The tower is wobbling and the game is tense and quiet. Neither of us wants to be the one to blame when it all falls down. Neither of us realizes that both players lose when the game is over.

We trudge quietly across the sand and without conversation mutually agree on a spot. We’ve moved too far beyond, “Where do you want to sit?” “I don’t mind, wherever you pick is fine.” We’ve learned to choose our battles carefully and this is one that doesn’t matter. No energy, no noise, no words are wasted on these pointless decisions.

I spread out the blanket, and he automatically grabs the two corners closest to him to help smooth it out. We slip our sandals off and set one at each corner of the blanket. As we both sit down, he places his chosen block on top of the tower. We stare out at the water in silence. I sense the subtle shift in power and feel his expectation. He’s brought us here, now it’s my turn.

I take a deep breath and say, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

He shakes his head and I respond, “Well, I’m going.”

I’m not sure if he acknowledges me or not, because I am up and heading toward the water before he has a chance. I have taken the easy way out; have chosen to remove the obviously loose block from the tower and then stall, waiting before I place it on top.

I walk along under the beautiful full moonlight and breathe the fresh sea air. The light from the moon is reflected in a long brilliant ribbon on the water’s surface and it gives the appearance of a radiant silver river flowing through a flat, black landscape.

I feel him watching me as I roll up my pant legs and let the waves lap at my ankles. I linger at the water’s edge for as long as I can. I want him to come and join me. I want the game to stop.

But he stays rooted to the blanket, and I finally return to him, resignedly placing my block on top of the increasingly wobbly tower. I let myself fall gracelessly to the blanket beside him, carelessly rocking the tower.

When I look over at him, I see tears running down his face.

“I brought you here because I need to tell you something,” he says. He looks at me pleadingly as he recklessly drops his block on the tower.

I hold my breath as the tower leans, threatening to fall, and realize that it’s my turn already.

“Is it something I want to hear?” I ask, stalling, tapping and prodding for a loose block.

He closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head, and I decide to just choose. I pull the block out slowly and say, “What?”

I pause, my hand held over the tower, as we both realize that this is it. This is the block that will end the game. How did it end up in my hand?

“I slept with someone,” he says.

Said quietly. Said gently. Said matter-of-factly.

I freeze. I don’t breathe, I don’t move, I don’t speak, or cry, or ask “why?” The tiniest movement on my part is enough now to bring the tower down. I sit on the beach under the full moon, my lungs full of breath, and I examine the tower we’ve built together: wobbly and full of holes. I hear him sob, and realize that it’s me that will bring it down. The game is out of his power now. It’s in my hands. He’s made his final move.

I hold my breath as I feel the sadness begin to flood in, and finally I can’t wait any more. I stand up, put on my sandals and begin the walk back to the car, with the sound of falling all around me.